American Viking: a timeline
- Thread starter Odinson
- Start date
Gunnar.
But you need both. The Jarl gives you context for the larger world. Gunnar has the more exciting storyline
I concur.
Chapter 31
1300, the last days of summer: Somewhere north
After a night of restlessness, comfort a distant memory, Gunnar awoke. Not to a sunny sky as he hoped, a friendly horizon to help him forget about the predicament he found himself in. Rather, he opened his eyes to a cloudy one, no sun in sight in the field of grey. Thunder clouds swelling like melons in a garden, almost ripe enough to rain. Up high in the trees, he could feel a chill in the air, a sign summer was reaching its end, nearing time for harvest. Softly grunting, Gunnar moved to stand on the branch, careful not to shake his hiding place too much, lest one of the bone clad Odinists were waiting down below as some sick wake up call. He wished he could pretend it was all just a dream, a figment of his imagination. Yet it was all too real to forget, to ignore. Looking down on the forest floor, he saw nothing. Strapping his claw shield to his forearm and his spare to his back, he started his climb down, iron claw of his shield biting into the bark.
Hitting the ground with a soft thud, Gunnar straightened his helm so the "googles" aligned with his eyes. Aside from the chirping and screeches of birds, there was so sign of activity. Looking upwards at the dark sky, Gunnar felt his heart sink. Alone in enemy territory, no information on the layout of the land, and no rations. He didn't even have Ivar to save his ass this time. Gunnar had to save Ivar's and the collective asses of his other friends.
".... I'm so f***ed." Gunnar had a vague idea of where the cult's main camp was, and so he decided to go in the general direction of it. At least he hoped he was going in the right way. As he stealthily snuck through the forest, the dark clouds finally released their contents, rain pouring from the sky in heavy bands, soaking not only Gunnar, but also turning the forest floor into a sea of mud that filled his moccasins. Despite his best efforts to stay silent, Gunnar could not stop himself from snapping the twigs and branches littering the floor. His paranoia slowly grew as he moved among the bushes and trees, not wanting to be found. As he rounded a tree, he forced himself to stop when he saw a small cluster of them walking along a trail, torches in hand as they lumbered along. Faces masked by bone and paint, Gunnar could still see glimpses of whiteness under their frightening costumes. Clubs and axes in their hands, the way they tightly clenched them, made Gunnar know that they were still looking for him for a sacrifice to their pagan gods. Did they really still cling to Odin? Or was it some form of pageantry designed to frighten their foes, to create a legend? Perhaps they wished to be left alone, hoping to frighten off others. After all, they can't be native to this area, the locals would have driven them away by now. Migration from the north perhaps? Staying silent, not daring to breath, Gunnar allowed the column to go past before trying to slip away. As the cult trotted down the path, Gunnar slipped away, only to step on a branch hidden in the mud, snapping it. The Odinists turned around sharply. With a great bellowing roar of excitement and anger, the cult ran at him, and Gunnar ran for his life.
Hopping over gnarled roots and felled trunks, Gunnar's heart was racing as he struggled to lose them, heavy rain pelting him in the face as he ran, tree branches swatting at him like a gnat. He could hear their howls behind him in the distance, their voices sending chills up his spine. Running as far as possible, he came into a clearing where a single oak tree stood in the center of the open area, leaves changing from a youthful green to a dying brown and yellow. Stopping for a moment to breath, Gunnar's eyes scanned the treeline, widening when he saw a hulking, broad chested man emerge from the shadow from beneath the tree. A shirt of bones hung across the chest, clacking against one another, white paint covering the top half of his face. At his side was a large hammer attached to a length of iron chain that was wrapped around his forearm. The figure slowly rotated his head on his neck, an audible crack as he does so. He barks at Gunnar in harsh, angry Norse.
"Well well well, looks like I found the little lost pup." The dialect different then what Gunnar was used to back home, but he could still understand what he was sayong reasonably.
"We don't have to fight. You can just let me go," said Gunnar nervously, slipping back into Norse himself.
"Oh you're not going anywhere. I'm going to break your bones and give your body to Thor." He let the hammer slip from his fingers, catching it by the very end of the handle. As soon as he uttered those words, a bolt of lightning split the oak behind him in two in a blinding flash. Gunnar's eyes flashed wide open. That has to be coincidence. Somewhat blinded by the light, Gunnar only had a split second to raise his shield when he saw the hammer flying towards him. The force of the blow sent him sprawling across the ground, laying flat on his back, gasping for air. With a flick of the wrist, the cultist jerked back the chain, bringing the hammer back. Gunnar scrambled to his feet before the Norse cultist tossed the hammer again. Ducking, he felt the weapon whistle overhead before snapping the chain back. The cultist threw the hammer into the sky and tugged the chain down, bringing the hammer down to earth as Gunnar rolled out of the way.
"Stop yer running, boy! You're just prolonging the inevitable!" He started twirling the chain, the hammer spinning like deadly hurricane, the Norse man the eye of the storm. Gunnar raised his two shields in front of his face to guard himself, sweating nervously despite shivering in the cold rain. Loud roars and grunts echoed from the forest as his pursuers entered the clearing, standing by at the edges. Hooting and howling, they didn't come any closer, as if they were letting the wanna be Thor have his fun first. The hammer scored the shields, shaving a bit of the wood off, pushing Gunnar back a pace. He tried to dig his feet into the soil, the muck sucking in his feet. The Norse warrior smiled and stopped spinning, rearing back his arm before swinging and sending the hammer hurling towards Gunnar's side before jerking his arm to the left, the chain following the motion. The chain snagged Gunnar by his ankles, the hammer spinning and wrapping around them, the momentum carrying him in a wide arc before crashing to the ground. Groaning as he picked himself up, Gunnar found himself still entangled in the chain. Feeling the slack in the chain vanish as the Norse man started pulling back for another swing, Gunnar slammed down the iron tip of his shield into the link beside his feet, leaving the Norse man hammerless. Though deprived of the hammer, the chain still proved to be effective as a weapon, flailing the chain against Gunnar's shield, threatening to break his arm should the wood and iron fail to protect him. Arm reared back, Gunnar struggled to escape the chains still around his legs. Kicking off the iron chains, he looked up to the snarling Norse, spit flying from his mouth. Gunnar, fist tightening, backhanded him across the face with the normal shield. As the Norse slowly spun backwards, cradling his chin, Gunnar stood up and stared at him, panting. He was cold, he was scared. But he couldn't just run away. He would never escape these freaks. And his friends needed him.
Kill or be killed.
Kill or be killed.
Gunnar reared his right arm back and rammed the iron prongs into the cultist, cold metal running right through him, punching through the flesh and poking through the collection of dangling bones. The Norse man struggled for breath. Brutish hands clumsily grabbed the prongs protruding from his chest. The surrounding cultists stopped their howling and cheering as they watched in shock. With a good shove, the Norse man was pushed off the blades, and crumpled to the ground. Gunnar breathed slowly, trying to bottle up his emotions. Now is not the time to cry. Focus.
He heard the squelching of mud behind him. Not turning to look, he twisted his waist and sunk the prongs into the attacking cultist, stopping him dead, dagger falling from the dead man's hand.
"How many more of you do I have to deal with? Huh!? Well come on you freaks, I'm tired of running!" He kicked the dead man off the blade. His eyes scanned the group, hair matting to his face. Rather than face him after losing two of their own in such a quick succession, the remaining Odinists slunk back into the shadows of the forest, yet again leaving Gunnar alone in the wild.
After a night of restlessness, comfort a distant memory, Gunnar awoke. Not to a sunny sky as he hoped, a friendly horizon to help him forget about the predicament he found himself in. Rather, he opened his eyes to a cloudy one, no sun in sight in the field of grey. Thunder clouds swelling like melons in a garden, almost ripe enough to rain. Up high in the trees, he could feel a chill in the air, a sign summer was reaching its end, nearing time for harvest. Softly grunting, Gunnar moved to stand on the branch, careful not to shake his hiding place too much, lest one of the bone clad Odinists were waiting down below as some sick wake up call. He wished he could pretend it was all just a dream, a figment of his imagination. Yet it was all too real to forget, to ignore. Looking down on the forest floor, he saw nothing. Strapping his claw shield to his forearm and his spare to his back, he started his climb down, iron claw of his shield biting into the bark.
Hitting the ground with a soft thud, Gunnar straightened his helm so the "googles" aligned with his eyes. Aside from the chirping and screeches of birds, there was so sign of activity. Looking upwards at the dark sky, Gunnar felt his heart sink. Alone in enemy territory, no information on the layout of the land, and no rations. He didn't even have Ivar to save his ass this time. Gunnar had to save Ivar's and the collective asses of his other friends.
".... I'm so f***ed." Gunnar had a vague idea of where the cult's main camp was, and so he decided to go in the general direction of it. At least he hoped he was going in the right way. As he stealthily snuck through the forest, the dark clouds finally released their contents, rain pouring from the sky in heavy bands, soaking not only Gunnar, but also turning the forest floor into a sea of mud that filled his moccasins. Despite his best efforts to stay silent, Gunnar could not stop himself from snapping the twigs and branches littering the floor. His paranoia slowly grew as he moved among the bushes and trees, not wanting to be found. As he rounded a tree, he forced himself to stop when he saw a small cluster of them walking along a trail, torches in hand as they lumbered along. Faces masked by bone and paint, Gunnar could still see glimpses of whiteness under their frightening costumes. Clubs and axes in their hands, the way they tightly clenched them, made Gunnar know that they were still looking for him for a sacrifice to their pagan gods. Did they really still cling to Odin? Or was it some form of pageantry designed to frighten their foes, to create a legend? Perhaps they wished to be left alone, hoping to frighten off others. After all, they can't be native to this area, the locals would have driven them away by now. Migration from the north perhaps? Staying silent, not daring to breath, Gunnar allowed the column to go past before trying to slip away. As the cult trotted down the path, Gunnar slipped away, only to step on a branch hidden in the mud, snapping it. The Odinists turned around sharply. With a great bellowing roar of excitement and anger, the cult ran at him, and Gunnar ran for his life.
Hopping over gnarled roots and felled trunks, Gunnar's heart was racing as he struggled to lose them, heavy rain pelting him in the face as he ran, tree branches swatting at him like a gnat. He could hear their howls behind him in the distance, their voices sending chills up his spine. Running as far as possible, he came into a clearing where a single oak tree stood in the center of the open area, leaves changing from a youthful green to a dying brown and yellow. Stopping for a moment to breath, Gunnar's eyes scanned the treeline, widening when he saw a hulking, broad chested man emerge from the shadow from beneath the tree. A shirt of bones hung across the chest, clacking against one another, white paint covering the top half of his face. At his side was a large hammer attached to a length of iron chain that was wrapped around his forearm. The figure slowly rotated his head on his neck, an audible crack as he does so. He barks at Gunnar in harsh, angry Norse.
"Well well well, looks like I found the little lost pup." The dialect different then what Gunnar was used to back home, but he could still understand what he was sayong reasonably.
"We don't have to fight. You can just let me go," said Gunnar nervously, slipping back into Norse himself.
"Oh you're not going anywhere. I'm going to break your bones and give your body to Thor." He let the hammer slip from his fingers, catching it by the very end of the handle. As soon as he uttered those words, a bolt of lightning split the oak behind him in two in a blinding flash. Gunnar's eyes flashed wide open. That has to be coincidence. Somewhat blinded by the light, Gunnar only had a split second to raise his shield when he saw the hammer flying towards him. The force of the blow sent him sprawling across the ground, laying flat on his back, gasping for air. With a flick of the wrist, the cultist jerked back the chain, bringing the hammer back. Gunnar scrambled to his feet before the Norse cultist tossed the hammer again. Ducking, he felt the weapon whistle overhead before snapping the chain back. The cultist threw the hammer into the sky and tugged the chain down, bringing the hammer down to earth as Gunnar rolled out of the way.
"Stop yer running, boy! You're just prolonging the inevitable!" He started twirling the chain, the hammer spinning like deadly hurricane, the Norse man the eye of the storm. Gunnar raised his two shields in front of his face to guard himself, sweating nervously despite shivering in the cold rain. Loud roars and grunts echoed from the forest as his pursuers entered the clearing, standing by at the edges. Hooting and howling, they didn't come any closer, as if they were letting the wanna be Thor have his fun first. The hammer scored the shields, shaving a bit of the wood off, pushing Gunnar back a pace. He tried to dig his feet into the soil, the muck sucking in his feet. The Norse warrior smiled and stopped spinning, rearing back his arm before swinging and sending the hammer hurling towards Gunnar's side before jerking his arm to the left, the chain following the motion. The chain snagged Gunnar by his ankles, the hammer spinning and wrapping around them, the momentum carrying him in a wide arc before crashing to the ground. Groaning as he picked himself up, Gunnar found himself still entangled in the chain. Feeling the slack in the chain vanish as the Norse man started pulling back for another swing, Gunnar slammed down the iron tip of his shield into the link beside his feet, leaving the Norse man hammerless. Though deprived of the hammer, the chain still proved to be effective as a weapon, flailing the chain against Gunnar's shield, threatening to break his arm should the wood and iron fail to protect him. Arm reared back, Gunnar struggled to escape the chains still around his legs. Kicking off the iron chains, he looked up to the snarling Norse, spit flying from his mouth. Gunnar, fist tightening, backhanded him across the face with the normal shield. As the Norse slowly spun backwards, cradling his chin, Gunnar stood up and stared at him, panting. He was cold, he was scared. But he couldn't just run away. He would never escape these freaks. And his friends needed him.
Kill or be killed.
Kill or be killed.
Gunnar reared his right arm back and rammed the iron prongs into the cultist, cold metal running right through him, punching through the flesh and poking through the collection of dangling bones. The Norse man struggled for breath. Brutish hands clumsily grabbed the prongs protruding from his chest. The surrounding cultists stopped their howling and cheering as they watched in shock. With a good shove, the Norse man was pushed off the blades, and crumpled to the ground. Gunnar breathed slowly, trying to bottle up his emotions. Now is not the time to cry. Focus.
He heard the squelching of mud behind him. Not turning to look, he twisted his waist and sunk the prongs into the attacking cultist, stopping him dead, dagger falling from the dead man's hand.
"How many more of you do I have to deal with? Huh!? Well come on you freaks, I'm tired of running!" He kicked the dead man off the blade. His eyes scanned the group, hair matting to his face. Rather than face him after losing two of their own in such a quick succession, the remaining Odinists slunk back into the shadows of the forest, yet again leaving Gunnar alone in the wild.
It always comes down to the most essential question in desperate times.
Beautiful and breathtakingly exciting Chapter, I now hope that Gunnar can help his friend and will survive this quest too.
Last edited:
Yay!
Yeah, now that my semester is over I have more free time to work on this stuff.
Glad you're enjoying it!
We shall see....
Nice update. So from the past few updates, it's confirmed there is a cultlike sect of Nords around OTL Upstate NY that holds a vague military prescence around that area, correct?
More or less. A century or two ago, they had been in northern New England but we're driven off, so now they're settling in OTL New York during the chaos of the latest war between the Mohawk and the Wampanoag.
Hi, uh, really really really sorry for a lack of updates...
I tried starting a small game in the shared worlds and I lost a lot of motivation for running it, but I felt I should focus on the game until it finished to continue the next update. Well I'm having trouble writing updates for it, so I think it will be good for me to try writing about other things instead of stressing about the report, because maybe that will help me with my motivation by writing the thing I actually want to write.
Uh anyways, I hope to have the next update out in the next 2 weeks.
I tried starting a small game in the shared worlds and I lost a lot of motivation for running it, but I felt I should focus on the game until it finished to continue the next update. Well I'm having trouble writing updates for it, so I think it will be good for me to try writing about other things instead of stressing about the report, because maybe that will help me with my motivation by writing the thing I actually want to write.
Uh anyways, I hope to have the next update out in the next 2 weeks.
no worries, take your time! Better a good product with delay, than garbage product immediately
Dear readers,
I know I said to expect an update soon, but it looks like it will be a while. I tried to write the next chapter, but I just don't have it in me. My mental state is not good right now to say the least, between family drama and university, I don't know when the next update will be. Thanks for being patient.
- Odinson
I know I said to expect an update soon, but it looks like it will be a while. I tried to write the next chapter, but I just don't have it in me. My mental state is not good right now to say the least, between family drama and university, I don't know when the next update will be. Thanks for being patient.
- Odinson
