Asgeirr knew not what had happened. He did not need to ask where he was. Blood. Blood everywhere. It was hot, in an unrelenting, tormenting way. Asgeirr knew which mastress reigned here. Kharnath, the hound, Lord of skulls, master of bloodshed, purger of the weak, exalter of the strong. In this flaming realm of blood and skulls eternal war waged, to entertain the Blood God. "Mortal, you will do my bidding, as you did before. I demand the skulls of the weak southern fools, that dare seek SALVATION in my ever scheming brother, and his petty arts of magic! Bring me their skulls for my throne, show my brother that his weak servants are but sheep to you!" The Blood God had spoken, a titan on a throne of skulls, with eyes that burned with savage fire, and horns that where as towers. "Your will, master!" Asgeirr howled, invigorated by a strange aura, determined to do the gods bidding, to cull the weak, to KILL, to MAIM, to BURN! The hound would find these soft southerners sacrificed in his name, by the honour of his forefathers he would see to it!
Rage. A fascinating emotion. It is as likely to fuel one man as it is to end another man's life. Mankind had slewn each other since the dawn of time. In Norsca there are those that are fuelled by acts of bloodshed, and those that excel at combat out of pure necessity.
Then there are those that are touched by the hound.
Asgeirr was exhausted. His one remaining good arm hurt, his legs couldn't carry him anymore, his axe was blunt and chipped, his clothes soaked wet with blood, and the cultmaster's look did not invigorate him either. There Asgeirr sat, upon his own little throne, surrounded by the weapons of the cultists, their bloody heads piled up right in the middle of the sanctum. It was only now that he questioned, if it was wise to have slaughtered the servants of the raven. Of course he had done it before, the unending quarrels between tribes in Norsca oftentimes necessitated this, but to do so when arguably all gods had laid their eyes upon him...
His thoughts were distracted when suddenly, like lightning, a black bird had soared from nowhere, taking it's place upon the head of the cultmaster, in top of the pile.
A raven had come,
to feast on the dead.
YOU ARE READING
THE SAGA OF ASGEIRR
Fantasy"Greetings, stranger, come, have a seat and listen. Let me tell you the Saga of Asgeirr, chosen of the gods! A tool of the gods' will, gifted with suffering and hardship, and other things that the gods seldom give. Interested? Come then, let us see...
