#swinging that axe around in a crowd of enemies is so satisfying...

[vulpinesaint]

i love to be bad at video games btw. killed the artillery hunter in old yharnam!!!!! by uh. by falling off the tower. and dying. but he jumped after me and also died on impact so i still won :3 work smarter not harder folks <3

[multifandomsish]

Like Father, Like Daughter Summary: Ragnar Lothbrok’s spitting image of a daughter sets out for her own land. Word Count: 1,813 Characters: Ragnar Lothbrok, Bjorn Ironside, Rollo Ragnarsson Warnings: none quite yet. If this turns into a series (it probably will) there will be some eventually. A/N: this is my first time writing for the Vikings characters so if it’s bad, I’m terribly sorry. I’m also not caught up, I’ve only just reached season three, episode five so I’m a season or so behind. But please do leave some constructive criticism, let me know what you’d like to see or just request some stuff for Vikings! - The desire began when you were just a child, a mere age of five. Your father, Ragnar Lothbrok, had taken you with him on a walk down to the shore of the waters to play freely. Despite his attempts at keeping you away from the water, you’d managed to tumble right into the small oncoming waves, your twin brother, Bjorn, watching you with raised brows as you fought your father off. Bjorn hadn’t carried the suspicions you had about what laid beyond the large open waters, much farther from your home land than you could ever dream. From the moment you’d been born, everyone had told Ragnar or Lagertha that you’d grow to be his walking shadow, a spitting image of the man with extravagant dreams. No one would have ever imagined you would pursue those very dreams. Ragnar would tuck you into bed, a soft kiss being pressed to your forehead but before he could blow out the small lit torch by your bed of furs, you begged him each night for another story of the waters. And so, as to please you, he would sit and tell you of what he imagined, what he dreamed was beyond the waters of their land. And each story drove you just as they drove your father. When he had come home one day to tell your mother that he, Floki, Rollo, and several other men were taking the waters on themselves despite Earl Haraldson’s command, you had immediately jumped to his side, begging and pleading and crying, asking him to take you along. But he turned you down, squatted down to your eleven year old height and promised you that if they made it west and came back safely, he would then take you on their next trip. When you and Bjorn were twelve, your mother and father split, leaving you and Bjorn to go with Lagertha. You had faith in your father but the princess standing next to him, swollen with his child, had driven you away. No amount of love for your father could bring you to endure letting a woman you hated with a burning passion mother you. And as you watched your father’s slowly disappearing form, you’d promised yourself that you would explore the waters no matter what you had to do. You had to prove to your father that you could conquer just as much as he had. - The cold air nipped at your cheeks, having turned them a bright red that would look painful to others, but because of the cold they had begun to go numb, along with your nose. With the presence of your army of men and women stood behind you, shields and swords and axes ready, you watched across the field at the oncoming herd of another army. The cape worn around your shoulders flew with the wind, your hand gripped tight at the sword in hand and you raised it, letting out an animalistic cry. “Charge!” You screamed. The oncoming men were not familiar to you and you had no idea who they were, but they were a threat seeing as they were trying to raid the land that you had full intentions of making yours. A man in the distance, presumably their leader, raises his fist as you had around a sword and shouts at his men, everyone quickly herding towards your own. Two groups of warriors clashed in the middle of the land, met with swords and axes swinging, either being dodged or hit. You were quick to join your men, having taken down the first few who took an attempt at killing you. Though you were growing tired with each fight, you pushed on until you were face to face with the leader of the enemy. Blue eyes that mirrored yours exactly held your gaze, a state of shock overcoming the man’s face as he watched you. He stepped forward and you immediately slung your sword out, the tip of it just barely scraping his neck. You stopped it so the tip is settled against his Adam’s apple, raising an eyebrow. You hadn’t seen your father since you were twelve, you had very distant memories. You also hadn’t known that Bjorn was visiting him on the side, your mother having known and permitted it. His voice is what made your mind flood with the memories of his stories, promising you that one day the two of you would sail the sea together. “Y/N?” You could just barely hear him but it was enough and you fought to not drop your sword and run into his arms. You only pressed upwards more firmly to tilt his chin up with it. You examined him, taking in the features that began to look familiar to you. It was like a rush of warmth and happiness flooded over your body, having longed to be with your father again but Lagertha told you no time and time again. She had believed that you would be better off without him in your life. Unlike Bjorn, you listened to your mother nowadays while he continued to connect with Ragnar despite Lagertha’s new husbands wishes. "Ragnar? Father?” You spoke up and he gave as best a nod he could. You immediately dropped your sword from his chin. “Retreat!” You shouted at your men, seeing many of them look around confusedly. You hadn’t been losing by any means but these were your fathers men and you could not take them from him. The familiar face of your brother emerged from the crowd, blood splattered over his face as the two groups retreated until you and Ragnar were left standing in the middle of it all. You had known Bjorn was leaving the town to go on a mission for your mother and step father, but you had no idea where exactly he was going. You assume your step father hadn’t known where he was going either, seeing as he hated Ragnar as much as you hated your fathers’ new wife. You gave Bjorn an odd look, brows raising at him as he walked closer to the two of you, panting heavily from the exertion from the fighting. He stopped near you and your father. “Y/N- You weren’t supposed to be here- How did you-?” He stopped, brows furrowed almost confusedly. "Our mother has agreed to let me sail the seas as I please. I have my own army, she could not tell me no.” You told them, looking from Bjorn to Ragnar as they both watched you. The grin on your fathers’ face told you that he was more than pleased and joyous that you were taking such a stand, even at a young age. "My daughter- Already making a leader out of herself. You’ve no idea how much I prayed to the Gods when you left with your mother that you’d take and do something with your love for the waters.” Ragnar spoke up, looking you over before he stepped forward to ever so gently cup your cheeks and kiss your forehead. “I hope that you would join us for celebration? Let us treat you to a nice meal.” He insisted, giving you no room but to agree. With little hesitation, your men followed you as you walked alongside your father. A figure that approached your side almost made you jump but when you looked up your uncles face came into view and a grin settled on your lips at the sight of him. "You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you. You are growing into a fabulous young woman.” Rollo told you, giving you a smile that spoke thousands for the fact he’d just told you how proud he was of you. "I could not stay a child forever, uncle, and we all know that.” You laughed softly at him, shrugging your shoulders. Things went quiet as the two armies took the trek back to your father’s camp grounds. Upon getting there, you were shown to your father’s tent and given a cup of mead to keep you settled until the food was done. - With empty plates and full bellies, the herds of men were just about silent, now satisfied with the meal. You were laid back on a bed of furs that you were sure belonged to your father, nearing the sweet escape of sleep but a body that plopped down beside yours stirred you from the half awake, half asleep state you’d been in. Icy blue eyes that you’d inherited met yours, a grin that lingered on your father’s lips. He was obviously tipsy, or at least feeling the mead fairly well and that was seen in his eyes and how he swayed slightly as he sat beside you. "I have missed you dearly, love. You have no idea.” He whispered, voice just barely heard over the chatter in the tent. You, Ragnar, Bjorn, Athelstan, Rollo, and Floki had all taken to your father’s tent for the night to sit around and enjoy the company. You smiled wide at Ragnar, sitting up despite the dizziness in your head and taking his hand. “I’ve missed you too, father. Just as dearly as you speak of missing me. I’d have visited sooner but mother has not allowed me to do much. She’s been very heavily protective of me.” You admitted with a laugh. The look of hurt that passed over his face was noticeable but only for a moment and he nodded. “Very understandable. Your mother was not happy when she found out about Aslaug, as you can imagine.” The obvious guilt laced in his voice made you feel bad yourself but you knew you had no reason to feel bad for him. He’d chosen for himself to sleep with her and tear the family apart. "I remember. She was very angry. Though despite how angry she had been with you, she never told Bjorn or I that you were a terrible father. She continued to tell us how you loved us and how you would be with us if it were not for certain things.” You added, your hand giving his a firm squeeze. The admittance brought a smile back to his lips and he nodded, going quiet for several moments before he looked to you once more, something obviously on his mind. "Join me and my army of men in raiding this land.” He whispered, taking both of your hands this time, holding them so you had to keep your eyes on him. “We can split the land as you please, split the riches and work together to better our own people.” The excitement in his voice sent chills down your spine and before you could properly think the arrangement over you’d already nodded. -

[pentacass]

Halcyon Drabbles

Prompt: Ana and Kamilah playing Zero Dawn Skyrim - @smolviolin (Hope you’re feeling better :3)

-

Ana vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed neatly beside Kamilah with a loud, satisfied sigh. She tore open the big bag of chips in her hand and fed the first one to her wife, whose eyes were glued to the screen despite the lack of excitement on it.

"Come on, Milah," she said. "You've been stuck here for what? 10 years?"

"I have to get her face right," Kamilah retorted as she adjusted the size of her character's jawline.

After returning from a tiring and long deployment, they had chosen to become couch potatoes with their PS7, playing Skyrim Remastered Ultimate HD: Platinum Edition. Kamilah planned to play as a spellsword as always, though she had chosen a Breton this time, over her usual Altmer. Ana herself preferred to be a Dunmer archer, picking off enemies from afar while silhouetted in shadow. Charging aggressively into groups of enemies with lightning crackling and sword swinging was just so tactless compared to the artistry of the bow. And Ana loved telling that to her wife. Constantly.

She was lucky Kamilah didn't actually wield magic.

"Why do you even care about the face?" Ana said, chewing on a chip. "It's going to be hidden under a helmet like…all the time anyway."

"So? I like knowing she looks good."

Ana hummed with a smile, contenting herself with even more chips. There was no need to prod at her too much just yet. Oh, the fun had only just begun.

She had to bite her lip when Kamilah was done, earning a quizzical glance as the Dragonborn was led towards the group of Stormcloak prisoners.

"You started this war," General Tullius told Ulfric. "Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

A train whistle sounded in the distance.

The soldiers and prisoners looked up at the sky. Ana shoved three chips into her mouth to muffle the giggles when Kamilah narrowed her eyes.

"What did you do," Kamilah asked slowly.

Ana hummed a vague 'I'unno', pressing her lips together as she chewed. Not getting an answer any time soon, Kamilah turned back towards the screen to watch the execution begin. The first Stormcloak soldier was forced down onto the executioner's block, and soon lost his head to the axe.

"Next! The Breton in the rags!"

Another train whistle.

"Ana…" Kamilah intoned as a giggle finally escaped Ana's lips. "If this is what I think it is…"

"What, you'll chop my head off?"

"I'll burn your Beyoncé collection."

Ana gasped theatrically. "You monster!"

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

The Dragonborn walked forward, and was pushed down onto the block like the soldier before her, getting a grisly view of the finely rendered head lying in the wooden crate. The screen turned upward towards the black-clothed executioner, and then came yet another whistle, this time accompanied by a blue tank engine flying in the sky.

"Ana!" Kamilah exclaimed, throwing her head back in disbelief. All she got in reply was uncontrollable cackling.

"What in Oblivion is that!"

Thomas the Tank Engine flew to the top of the watchtower, sending tremors through the ground when it landed. It whistled and a Dragon Shout shook the area, just as Ana's full-blown cackles shook Kamilah's eardrums. She slapped at her own thigh as well as Kamilah's, utterly amused by how ominous Thomas' eternally smiling face was, as it made black clouds swirl in the skies above. More whistles, and Kamilah groaned, resigning herself to her fate when control was returned to her.

The Dragonborn ran for her life, looking for shelter in a nearby tower. Halfway up the rough stone steps, the wall was knocked down, and a gout of flames blasted past the Dragonborn’s face. An aggressive train horn blared through the speakers.

"I hate you so much," Kamilah said, jumping over the fallen wall and making her way to Hadvar.

"Love you too, babe." Miraculously, Ana managed to keep from choking while she laughed and ate and spoke at the same time. It was lucky that she had swallowed her mouthful of chips properly when Thomas landed right before their eyes, smiling as it spat flames at the terrified NPCs. Because it was then that Ana well and truly lost it.

"I can't take it!" Ana guffawed, rocking back and forth in her seat. She looked over at Kamilah, who was wearing a smile despite her vocal disapproval. "It's a fucking train!" Tears starting welling in her eyes as Thomas took to the air again, flying off to wreak even more death and destruction upon the village.

Ana managed to keep Kamilah playing the modded game by swearing to uninstall it soon, and by feeding her wife as she continued playing. Kamilah even gave a few chuckles as they played through the night, encountering more dragons-no, trains as she went on. And though Kamilah admitted to finding the mod amusing, she still wanted it gone, and supervised Ana as she uninstalled it with a grin still on her lips.

Their gaming retreat went on for a few days, the women taking turns to play on the console, and sometimes teaming up in multiplayer modes. Then one day, Ana fired up Skyrim again to play her Dunmer archer. Itching for something ridiculous to do, Ana decided to make a save before aiming her bow at Nazeem 'from the Cloud District'.

The guards promptly came after her, giving Nazeem some backup. The crowd became a little too much for her archer, so Ana decided to pull out the Dragonborn's unique ability.

"Fus Ro PRRRFFFFFTT"

Ana paused, before laughter started bubbling to the surface. She switched to third-person view and shouted again, watching the Dunmer turn around and fart mightily at her foes.

"Oh my god!"

She farted again and again and again, with enough laughter spilling from her lips to earn her a free pass to an asylum.

"Milah I fucking love you!" Ana yelled to her wife in the study, before going on to fart all of Whiterun into Oblivion.

-

Mods mentioned: Thomas the Tank Engine, Animated Fart Shouts

[williamkenedy]

The Legend of the A-Khela, Part II

It took a fortnight until Annariel was fit to travel. While she was recovering, Astred had returned to Ravndal to report what had happened. Arl Thelm had sent another group of warriors to escort Annariel back to Ravndal. Leading them was a young warrior named Marjoner. He had a tall and sturdy build, with short dark hair and an affable personality. He had served with some distinction in battle, and he had been raised to a seat in the court of the Arl as an advisor. When he entered, Annariel stood from the bed, using her spear to support her weight. The two had met on several occasions, and they were friends, if not terribly close. He led Annariel to her horse, and the party set off for Ravndal. While they traveled, Marjoner told her that other villages had been attacked by these wolves, and that Gellena had revealed that they were products of similar blood magic to that which had created the blood ragers. The Arl had ordered that traps be laid throughout the North, and all wolves should be caught and killed so that they could not be used by their enemies. Marjoner continued, telling of how some of the wolves that were captured alive were taken to the arena in Ravndal, where warriors who were bold enough could prove their bravery and skill by facing a starved wolf in single combat. He said it was inspired by her single combat with the alpha. She shook her head, surprised that the Arl would have taken such a drastic action against nature. He had always respected the gods and nature, regardless of what other chieftains had complained about or said. He had always said that all life should be held sacred, as the gods have blessed all those under the sky. It would have taken extremely strong counsel to shift his mind in this fashion.

When they finally arrived at Ravndal, Annariel was asked to ride at the head of the company. As she entered the city, the streets were lined with people. As they saw her, a great cheer erupted from the crowd. She rode down the streets, stunned into silence by the outpouring of adulation from the crowd. As she reached the steps of the palace, with its towering wood and stone rising above her like a mountain, she looked up to see the Arl standing in his finest armor. At his side was Gellena, Astred, and many other nobles. She dismounted, and the Arl beckoned for her to approach. She advanced timidly at first, unsure of what to expect. However, a smile from Astred gave her a sense of security, and her steps became more confident. When she stood before the Arl, he motioned for her to kneel.

“Shieldmaiden Annariel, you have proven your exceptional bravery and strength against unimaginable foes”, the Arl proclaimed, “Your service is worthy of every glory and honor. Therefore, let you henceforth be known as Annariel Wolfslayer. Furthermore, I bestow on you the title of Valkyrie. Accept these tokens of your new station”. An steward came forward and handed the Arl a beautiful cloak. It was made from the hide of the alpha, dyed purple and covered in the runes and symbols of a valkyrie. The fur that lined it was still black, and the alpha’s head had been shrunk so that it could be affixed to the left shoulder of the cape. The Arl draped the cape around her shoulders, fastening it with a silver brooch set with amethyst. The alpha’s head rested on her left shoulder, it’d lifeless eye staring off into the east. The Arl then reached for an ornate spear made of the finest steel. He touched it to each of Annariel’s shoulders, then he bid her rise. He smiled, then handed her the spear and turned her to face the crowd. The newly christened valkyrie thrust her spear into the sky, and the crowd roared their approval.

That evening, a great feast was held to honor Annariel. The food and drink was exceptional, but what Annariel loved most was the dance. From the minstrel’s first note, she grabbed Astred and the two danced with a grace unmatched by any. They inspired others, and soon the hall was filled with dancing. Marjoner cut in to dance with Annariel.  He was somewhat clumsy in his movement, but his effort was genuine. Annariel smiled, but soon returned to dancing with Astred. Marjoner retreated to a corner of the feasting hall, watching Annariel as she spun and leapt in perfect time. The Arl gave many toasts, and all were satisfied. The palace fires burned late into the night, and the feast seemed to all who were gathered like a feast in Valhalla.

The next morning, Annariel was invited by the Arl to observe the Challenge of the Wolf that her exploits had inspired. Several wolves had been captured alive, and each had been claimed by a challenger. Wearing her wolfskin cloak and carrying her spear, she was seated next to the Arl in his box. The arena lay below, a simple dirt pit surrounded by a wooden wall. In the past, this had been home to hunts or contests of skill between warriors. Annariel still had her reservations about the Arl’s order, but she didn’t dare question it in public. She would have to wait until she could secure a private audience. The master of the arena read off the name of the first challenger, who entered the arena carrying a massive greataxe. A cage was positioned on the other side of the arena, which contained  a wolf with a light brown coat. It looked starved and desperate, pacing inside its cage. A horn sounded, and the cage was opened. The wolf darted out, seeking a way to escape the pit. Finding none, it turned towards the warrior. The man charged at the wolf, swinging his axe in a wide arc. The wolf dodged, then lunged at the man’s heels. He struck the wolf with the haft of his axe, knocking it back. The wolf yelped, but quickly regained its footing. The wolf dodged many blows from the warrior’s axe, but eventually its movements slowed with exhaustion. Finally, the warrior brought his axe down in a crushing blow. The axe head split the wolf’s back in two, and the wolf let out a whimper before its breath stopped. The warrior lifted his bloody axe in victory, and the crowd roared its approval. Annariel had turned her head away before the final blow was struck. She felt sickened by the sight she had witnessed, but she said nothing for fear of contradicting the Arl. Several more wolves met their ends in similar ways, with the warriors that challenged them suffering only minor wounds. Finally, the arena master announced the final challenger.

“Our final challenger, Marjoner, advisor to the Arl. He will face the prize wolf of today’s contest, captured on the border of Valkensvi”. Marjoner strode into the arena confidently, his sword flashing in the sunlight. The cage with his challenger was also carried in, though unlike those that had come before, it was covered by a thick black cloth.

“I dedicate this challenge to my Arl, and to the mighty Wolfslayer!”, Marjoner shouted. He then motioned for the cage to be opened. The horn sounded. The cloth was torn away. The sight that met Annariel struck her like a hammer.

Within the cage was the same wolf that had defended her against the blood ragers. It’s black fur had lost none of its luster, and the thin white stripes and paws and face were now free from the stain of blood. Unlike the previous wolves, it seemed calm, and it did not pace in the cage. When the cage door swung open, it walked slowly out into the arena. The wolf fixed its golden eyes on Marjoner, who readied his sword and shield to attack. The wolf stood its ground silently. Annariel was aghast. She could not let her savior’s fate be the same as that of the others whose blood stained the arena floor. She grabbed her spear and leapt out of the Arl’s box. She raced through the crowd as Marjoner advanced cautiously towards the wolf. By the time she vaulted the wall, the two were within striking distance. As she landed in the arena, Marjoner raised his sword to deliver a blow. The wolf made no indication that it would dodge. She stood and began to run, but she was too late. The blade fell through the air.

It found a sheath in the dirt of the arena floor. The wolf had casually sidestepped the blow at the last minute. It made no move to counterattack. Marjoner pulled his blade free and took a step back, reestablishing his defense. The two circled as Annariel raced towards them, crying for them to stop. They were deaf to her pleas amid the roar of the crowd, and Marjoner attacked a second time. However, this time the wolf did not need to dodge, as Annariel’s spear parried the strike. The crowd let out a series of confused shouts as she forced Marjoner back from the wolf. She pointed her spear at his throat and told him to disarm. Marjoner dropped his weapons and stepped back. The Arl stood and demanded to know what she was thinking. She held her hand up for silence, and the crowd complied. She then turned to face the wolf. Its golden eyes looked to her spear, then her cloak, then met her gaze. Annariel raised her spear, then thrust it into the dirt. She stripped the cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall away as she walked towards the wolf. The wolf did not move or shift its gaze as she approached. She knelt before the wolf and extended her hand. The wolf placed its snow white paw in her hand, and there was a sudden, blinding flash of light.

When the crowd recovered their sight, the wolf was gone. In its place was a man, his hand in Annariel’s. They both stood, and all took him in. He stood naked, revealing a thin, lithe body. His pale skin was covered in tattoos of black intertwining lines that mirrored the white lines of the wolf’s fur. On his left chest was the same rune that had been on the forehead of the wolf. His long black hair bore a streak of pure white. Even Annariel was stunned by what had happened. She blushed at his nakedness, and handed the man her cloak so that he might cover himself. He cocked his head to the side, seeming not to understand what she was doing. Then he spoke. His voice was pleasant and rich, with a slight bark to its cadence. However, his words were not in the common language of the North, nor of any regional dialect or form of speech from the South. They were from the ancient language of the shamans. None present could understand what he said, and he repeated himself, looking around with a perplexed expression. A steward was immediately dispatched to find Gellena and bring her to the arena. Meanwhile guards leapt into the arena and surrounded both the man and Annariel. The man panicked, dropping into a low crouch with his hands touching the ground. His golden eyes continued to scan the guards, as if he expected them to attack. Annariel ordered the men to lower their weapons, but to no avail. The tense standoff lasted several minutes. Finally, Gellena hobbled into the arena, flanked by the Arl and Marjoner. The encircling guards parted to allow the old woman to approach. She spoke to the man in the ancient language, and he responded eagerly. The two went back and forth, and she pointed to the cloak. She must have explained to the man that he was naked, as he nodded and then covered himself appropriately. She then led him from the arena towards the temple, while the crowd stood in stunned silence at what they had just witnessed. The Arl and Marjoner approached Annariel and asked if she was ok, but she ignored them. Instead, she followed Gellena and the man back to the temple.

When they arrived, she sat in the corner as the old woman and the man conversed in the ancient language. Simple clothes of black cloth were brought for the man, and Gellena helped him to dress properly. The man then walked up to Annariel and handed her cloak. She accepted it, continuing to stare as he resumed talking to Gellena. Suddenly, the two fell silent. They walked to the central fire, standing on either side of it. The two began to chant in unison, their voices mixing into a resonant whole. Some of the runes on Gellena’s staff began to glow, as did the tattoos on the man’s skin. The fire danced to the words that they chanted. Suddenly, the shaman struck her staff against the floor, and the man’s hands clapped together. He slowly turned to Annariel. Their eyes met.

“Thank you for your cloak”, the man said. His speech was flawless, and this sudden change caused Annariel to jump back. Both Gellena and the man laughed. Gellena explained that she had used her magic to allow him to speak and understand the language of the north. She went on to explain that neither she nor the man had any idea how he came to be, if he had always been a wolf, or where he was from. He had no memories of any time that he was not a wolf, and therefore he had no name.

“However, I think the whe will call you Khela”. The shaman said to the man. She then explained to Annariel that Khela was the rune inscribed on the man’s chest, and that it meant wolf in the ancient language. The old shaman said that she would keep Khela with her for the night, and teach him some of the basic manners he would need. The newly named Khela suddenly rushed forward and hugged Annariel, and licked her face. Annariel was shocked by such a forward display of affection, that she froze. Khela quickly realised he had done something wrong and released her. Gellena laughed and said that everything would be alright.  She then dismissed Annariel so she could begin tutoring her new student.

Annariel wandered back to where she lived, oblivious to all around her. When she arrived, she was met by Astred, who had just returned from a scouting mission and had heard about the events at the arena. Annariel recounted the true events of how the wolf had saved her when she had witnessed the blood ritual, and how she could not allow her savior to be destroyed. The shield sisters sat for a while in silence, both processing the events. Marjoner arrived later, but Annariel refused to see him. She had too much on her mind to consider. As she slipped into a restless dream, she thought of the prophecy that Gellena had recounted. “You will know him by his mark.”

In the days that followed, Khela was seen wandering the streets of the Ravndal. While Gellena had convinced him to wear pants out of concern for decency, he wore no shirt. His hair was pulled back, the white streak running the length to where it was secured with a leather thong. He took interest in everything he came across, asking curious questions of anyone who would suffer him. He was often accompanied by Gellena. Khela bounded around the wizened shaman, eventually exhausting her with his seemingly boundless energy. Luckily for Gellena, the pair encountered Annariel and Astred as they made their way towards the training fields. Khela raced forward on all fours and tackled Annariel, violently licking her face. Astred laughed at her shield sister’s misfortune as annariel pushed Khela off her. The old shaman admonished Khela, then asked the two if they might take him with them to the training fields to let him expend some excess energy. The two agreed, and the three set off.

The field was full of warriors. Some sparred with blunted weapons, while others wrestled or engaged in other training exercises. The three walked amid the men and women until they found an open space. Khela’s eyes were wide as he took in all the sights of the field. The women decided to test his strength and combat skills now that he was no longer a wolf. After explaining the rules of wrestling, Annariel attacked Khela. He easily sidestepped her, and she tumbled to the ground. Astred laughed, then joined in the fray. The two women launched repeated attacks, but Khela’s canine agility had carried over into his human form. He easily evaded them, and often would trip them up and pin them. He would playfully nip at their ears or nose before letting them up again. After a while, they retrieved blunted swords and shields from the quartermaster. The two women tried to get Khela to use the shield properly, but he kept abandoning it in order to attack with both hands. Finally, Annariel gave up on the shield and decided to try giving him two swords. Khela adapted to this fighting style quickly, using the swords in the same way he had used his claws as a wolf. Even with her spear, Annariel found it difficult to repel his swift slashes and agile footwork. He had natural skill as a warrior, and soon their sparring attracted a crowd. The men and women that gathered placed bets on who would emerge successful, the wolf man or the shield sisters. Amid the crowd was Marjoner, and though he did not bet, he hoped that Khela would lose. The melee was fierce, with Khela using all his wolf-like agility to parry attacks from Annariel’s spear and Astred’s sword. Finally, Khela found his opening. Annariel had retreated to prepare for another strike, so he boldly tackled Astred. He placed his teeth on her throat, and she was called dead. He then rolled to his feet to face Annariel. The valkyrie lunged with her spear. Khela barely ducked under the spear, pushing the point skyward with one of his swords while he slid into her ankles. She staggered but did not fall. Annariel swung her shield down at Khela, but he rolled between her legs and placed his blade at the back of her neck. The few who had bet on Khela gave out loud cheers, while the rest groaned at having to pay out. Khela reacted to the cheers, giving a vibrant howl. The winners of their bets echoed his howl, as did others who were impressed by the wolf man. Both Annariel and Astred wondered privately whether Khela might be the one chosen by the prophecy. He certainly had great skill, and even on his second day he was drawing others to follow him in little ways. With the mark on his chest, he seemed like he could be the champion. However, Gellena had said he would also be heralded by omens, and none of great significance had been seen. The two women could only look on as the smiling man before them led another round of howls.

Weeks passed, and Khela became a facet of life around Ravndal. He lived in the temple with Gellena, and it was common to see the two of them conversing in the ancient language at any hour. He had adjusted fairly well to life in society, but he still possessed a number of quirks that reminded everyone of his canine past. He refused to sleep in a bed, preferring to curl up in front of the temple’s central fire or on one of the balconies in the open air. He would often cock his head to the side when conversing with others. When he would see Annariel or Astred, he would often break from whatever he was doing and race over to greet them. His loyalty to them was akin to that of a hound raised from birth. In melees on the training fields, he would guard the two zealously, even getting hurt once or twice in the process. At feasts or other gatherings, he could be found sitting on the floor in front of them or seated awkwardly on a bench next to them. Once, he even curled up in Annariel’s lap when they were gathered around a campfire telling stories. Many thought that something would begin between Khela and Annariel, and the two were often seen walking together or playing games by the firelight. Khela showed similar affection to Astred, but anyone who followed his golden eyes knew that his deepest feeling were for Annariel. Whispers among some of the arl’s advisors who had been told of the prophecy said that the union of a Valkyrie with the wolf man would be a clear omen that would name him the chosen champion.

However, other forces were at work while Khela adapted to human life. Attacks continued to plague the borders of the North. Blood ragers and Drakul wolves struck without mercy, but the Arl’s patrols kept them from the heartland of his land. Much of this success was attributed to strategies of Marjoner, the young captain who had risen to be one of the Arl’s most important advisor in the current crisis. His rise had garnered some whispers that he could be the chosen one for his skill and the crest of new lordship being his mark. However, any attention he might have gained was overshadowed by the arrival of Khela. He also had begun seeking to court Annariel, but her time with Khela was making that seem less viable.  He had not been informed of the prophecy due to his junior rank, but he knew that the Arl was looking to elevate Khela, possible above him. This did not sit well with Marjoner, and he began to brood on the dimming of his newborn star.

One day while he was riding home alone from a village that had been attacked, Marjoner was approached by a hooded woman. He could see nothing of her face except her sharp chin, blood red lips, and pale skin. She whispered in his ear all his desires, and claimed to be able to bring them about. She did not reveal her identity, but the detail with which she spoke of Marjoner’s life made him feel assured that she had some place in Ravndal. She provided him with several maps and a small charm bag. The maps bore the Blaghvold clan seal and supposedly detailed routes that their blood ragers and wolves would take to try and make inroads into the Arl’s lands. The woman claimed to have found them abandoned by a freshly extinguished campfire near the tundra. The charm bag, she claimed, would reveal when her promises would come to fruition, and when Marjoner’s ambition would be realized. She would at that time appear, and make a single request of him that he must grant.  He thanked the woman, then sped home in order to take action on his newly gathered intelligence.

When he arrived, he immediately briefed the Arl on his newly discovered intelligence. The Arl gave him full leave to direct forces as he saw fit to counter the threat. As he deployed his men and women, He took care to assign Annariel to serve with him, while sending Khela to one of the most isolated targets. Within a fortnight, Marjoner stood before the Arl to report a complete success of his attacks. The Arl promoted him to the rank of Jarl, which granted him both a title of nobility and a permanent position in the court. His dimming star had brightened again, and he became the focus of the rumors concerning who the champion would be. However, the charm bag never glowed. Marjoner thought nothing of it. He was enjoying the adoring gaze of the people, and the attention of Annariel in particular. The two began spending more time alone, leaving Khela to walk the streets alone.

It was almost a year until the charm bag finally began to glow. Its deep red light lit Marjoner’s bedchambers like a darkened, bloodstained slaughterhouse. He jumped when he saw the woman at the foot of his bed.

“The time has come to grant my request”, she whispered. Marjenor listened with increasing horror and interest as she related the prophecy to him. She went on to claim to know that he would be the one to reveal the betrayer, and that he would come to find out soon after her visit. The woman handed him another map. This one showed Ravndal. Sections of the wall were marked as if to indicate points of attack. He spent the remainder of the night studying the map, and by morning he was before the Arl, presenting him with his plans to fortify Ravndal. The Arl gave his consent with few questions, allowing Marjoner to build defences against incursions at the points shown in the map. He kept the map secret in his quarters, not wanting to reveal the source of his information.

It was nearing the end of the month when the attack finally came. The cold winds of winter were still a ways off, but the air bore a chilling sense of foreboding that night as guards patrolled the ramparts. The first to fall did so silently, as blood ragers that had scalede the walls cut them down from behind. This section of the city’s defences were lighter than normal, as it had not been marked on the map. Majoner had diverted their resources to reinforce other areas. No one in Ravndal knew anything was wrong until the entire city was awoken by the sound of stones being crushed and mortar giving way as some great force pounded into the wall. Guards ran from their heavily fortified positions to see what was happening. When the arrived, they didn’t notice the bodies of their fallen comrades or the obvious traces of the blood ragers. Instead, they looked down at the base of the wall. Preparing to ram the wall was a massive boar. It stood the size of a longship, with six stout legs supporting its massive girth. Its tusks had been capped in massive steel prongs to help it batter down the wall. It launched itself forward. The guards on the ramparts held on for dear life as the wall shook. One tumbled over the crenelations and fell screaming to his death. There was no way the wall could hold back the attack for long.The guards struggled to maintain their balance as they raced along the rampart to warn their comrades.

The sound of the the assault roused Marjoner. He quickly donned his armor and grabbed his weapon. He raced out into the street and looked up to the section of wall where the noise was coming from. He cursed the woman and her map. There was not supposed to be ay assault in that area. He raced to the barracks to rally the rest of the city’s defenders. When he arrived, Annariel and Astred were already directing warriors to arm themselves. Marjoner took the men who were ready towards the wall, while the two women remained to organize the rest of the city’s forces. Marjoner was only halfway to the wall before it collapsed. Majoner pushed his men forward, praying that the guards on the wall would hold the breach until reinforcements could reach them.

Nothing could have prepared either Marjoner or his men for what they saw trying to push their way through the gap in the wall. It seemed as though the gates of the underworld had been opened on the other side of the wall. Horned demons covered with armored scales and claws like swords clambered over the rubble. Creeping along the upper sections of the walls were humanoid creatures with masses of sucker coated tentacles in the place of her arms. Drakul wolves being ridden by blood ragers dashed amid the more otherworldly attackers. It would seem impossible for anyone to stand against such a damned army.

However, there were a small number of warriors engaged in a desperate struggle to hold back the enemy. These were not guards from the walls. None of them carried a shield. Instead, each of them carried a second sword or axe. Each of the warriors had a helmet shaped into the form of a wolf’s head.  Their fur lined armor added to their lupine appearance. These men were Khela’s devoted followers. They lived with him in the temple complex, training alongside him and following him in every aspect of their lives. He was their alpha, and they were his pack. They showed no fear, moving in unspoken coordination to take down one threat after another. In the center of the breach was Khela himself. He single handedly faced off against one of the horned demons. The claws of the beast raked through the air, but Khela’s wolflike agility allowed him to slip past the beasts defences and plunged his swords into the beast’s unarmored belly. Khela mercilessly eviscerated the beast, then leapt to bring down one of the tentacled aberrations on the wall. He and his pack, despite their small size, were actually holding the breach.

Marjoner recovered his bearing and lead his forces to help relieve Khela’s forces. The two fought together against the onslaught, until suddenly Khela snapped his head towards another section of the wall. He gave a howl, and the other lupine warriors echoed the call. They all then raced away from the breach. Marjoner cried out for them to return, calling them all manner of names. Khela’s force ignored him, continuing to disappear through the streets. Marjoner returned his focus to the invading enemies. While his men did not fight with as much coordination as Khela’s pack, they continued to hold the line. He cursed the wolf man as his sword cleaved through a blood rager’s neck.

Across the city, Annariel led her forces towards another section of the wall where there were reports of enemy attacks. When she arrived on the wall, she was greeted by a gruesome sight. Several of the tentacled aberrations had killed the guards on that section. From their mouths extended a twisting tongue that ended in a sharp barb. They stabbed their tongues into the corpses, and began to suck the fluids from the bodies. Annariel and her focres overcame their disgust and horror through their anger and desire to avenge their comrades. She charged, leading her forces against the distorted beings before her. The aberrations withdrew their tongues, then lashed out with their tentacles at the warriors. The tentacles wrapped themselves around the bodies of the warriors, then thorns burst from the suckers to pierce the men’s armor. As the tentacles released the bodies, they were torn apart, spewing blood and entrails across the battlements. Annariel used her spear and shield to keep the tentacles at bay. Her forces were unprepared to deal with this threat, and, they were quickly pushed back. Soon, she stood alone before three of the abominations. As their tentacles reached out to tear her apart, she braced to enter Valhalla as a true Valkyrie. She threw her spear through the bulbous head of the nearest creature, then drew her sword. The remaining two closed in, their suckers pulsating as they attacked. Annariel began to back up, but she suddenly slipped on the gore. The tentacles reached out to end her life.

Blades sliced through the tentacles. The creatures cried out in pain and surprise as Khela’s pack attacked from behind. They tore the aberrations to shreds. Khela raced over to Annariel. He looked her over, then helped her to her feet. He hugged her tightly, glad to see her alive. However, their reunion was cut short by the arrival of Marjoner. He stormed his way onto the battlements, demanding to know why Khela and his warriors had abandoned the breach. Annariel tried to defend Khela, but Marjoner would hear none of it. Khela seemed to ignore Marjoner, looking out from the wall and sniffing the air. Marjoner tried to get in his face, but Khela maintained his focus. Suddenly, Khela let loose a short burst of barks. His pack responded silently, lining up on the walls. Both Marjoner and Annariel were puzzled by their actions. However, their reason soon became apparent. The great boar the had broke through the wall the wall had returned to create another breach. It charged the wall, slamming its iron clad tusks into the wall. Everyone held on for dear life. Then, Khela and his pack let loose a fearsome howl. Then they leapt from the wall. Annariel tried to grab Khela’s cape as he jumped to hold him back, but she was left with just a handful of fur. The pack plummeted down the wall. Suddenly, a chant rose up in the ancient tongue. The warriors did not slow in their descent, but their armor glowed faintly as they fell. The pack hit the giant beast with the force of their fall, staggering it. The boar roared, turning to face its new attackers. The pack attacked the legs, darting in and out while avoiding being crushed underfoot or gored by the boar’s tusks. Marjoner and Annariel could do nothing but watch as Khela and his pack danced around their prey. Finally, the beast fled from the wall. The pack chased the boar for a distance before returning to the wall. They raced to the breach on the ground, while Annariel and Marjoner raced along the top of the wall. When the pack arrived at the breach, they quickly cut a path back into Ravdal. They then joined the forces gathered in pushing back the enemy. When the enemy lines broke and they retreated, Khela and his pack let loose a howl of victory, which was echoed by cries and shouts from the other warriors. Victory had been achieved.

However, the costs of the battle were higher than many had first thought. Many had died. A few enemies that had broken through into the city, and they had killed several women and children. There were funerals for the dead over the following days, and healers worked around the clock to save those who were wounded. Meanwhile, a new battle had begun in the throne room of the Arl. Thelm was furious over how flawed Ravndal’s defences had been. Marjoner bore the brunt of the Arl’s anger, as he had been responsible for planning the city’s protection. Marjoner defended himself, claiming that his defences were based on reliable information. Therefore, Marjoner argued, someone must have informed the enemy of their plans. However, he was not able to offer any proof of this, and so the Arl’s trust in him faded. Marjoner was stripped of his command. Anger surged in him at this disgrace. However, he took solace in his growing relationship with Annariel. Their growing closeness caused a slight rift between him and Khela. The wolf man was never outright hostile, but Marjoner’s actions were always watched closely by his golden eyes.

Khela and his pack were honored by the Arl for their courageous actions during the battle, and the pack grew in size. The Arl tasked Khela and his warriors with patrolling the border, which meant that he was often absent from Ravndal for long periods of time. They served the Arl well, and there was a period of relative peace on the frontier. The pack even struck out into the Valkensvi, trying to find the headquarters of their enemies. They failed to find any sign or indication of a stronghold, but the did find evidence of who was leading the renegade clans against the Arl. The information gathered by the pack showed that the elder shaman of the Blaghvold clan. She held knowledge of ancient blood magic which she had used to create the terrifying forces that had attacked the Arl’s lands. Rumors suggested that she also could use her powers to change her form or bend the will of others to hers. One scrap of information indicated that she might already have someone under her sway. Khela took this information personally to Ravndal to inform the Arl.

However, in Khela’s absence, many things had come to pass. Marjoner and Annariel had announced their betrothal, with the blessing of the Arl. This union brought Marjoner back into the favor of the Arl, and he was restored to the court as an advisor, though he held very little sway. Marjoner still harbored some resentment in his heart over his lost honor, but he knew what he was promised, and his betrothal seemed evidence that all would come to pass as the woman had promised. Even as Marjoner awaited his good fortune, life in Ravndal was stuck by a second assault. It did not come from any army, but from within the walls. Those who had been wounded in the battle had seemed to recover without any serious complications. However, they eventually came down with an inexplicable fever. They could not keep any food down, and they began to develop long, thin welts the color of clotted blood on their skin. Eventually, these welts would grow and burst, violently spewing blood and puss. After this event, the patient would die by the end of the day, the whole time suffering excruciating pain. The disease spread rapidly, and none had yet survived its ravages. The healers and shamans did their best to ease the pain of the afflicted, while Gellena used her knowledge to chant a spell to protect them from contracting the disease. However, even she was powerless to stop the spread of the disease beyond the temple. Each day more infected were brought into the temple to be quarantined. Marjoner was asked by the Arl to be his liaison to Gellena, and he was often seen in the temple with his face covered, searching for any pattern to the illness that might explain its origin. He found one striking commonality, a mark born by each of the dead in some form. He raced to the Arl’s throne room to deliver his report.

Marjoner and Khela entered the throne room at the same time. Khela immediately tensed on seeing Marjoner, though he could not explain why. The Arl called Khela forward first. Khela told Thelm of his pack’s many victories, and that he had uncovered the leader of the forces against the Arl. The wolf man went on to say that he had reason to believe that there was a traitor in the city. Those advisors who knew of the prophecy gasped at this pronouncement, each privately fearing that the champion might already have been thwarted without them even knowing it.

“You know it because you are the traitor!”, Marjoner shouted at Khela. He strode forward and revealed that the only common factor in the infected was that the welts formed the same rune on Khela’s chest right before they burst.  Marjoner went on to say how Khela had known about Ravndal’s defences, and he had been on many missions where he had disappeared for extended periods while claiming to be scouting. He had seemed to be able to predict the enemy’s actions during the attack on Ravndal. Combined with his unexplained origins, Marjoner concluded that there was no other explanation. Khela must be the betrayer. The Arl immediately called for his guards to arrest Khela, but the wolf man was far too quick. He had sensed the danger from the moment Marjoner had opened his mouth. He raced from the room, knocking over the two guards who tried to block his path. As Khela raced out of the palace, he passed Annariel and Astred. The two women had heard that he had returned, and they were excited to see their friend again. As he ran past them, his golden eyes met Annariel’s crystal blue gaze. The pain of regret was obvious in his eyes, and he knew this might be the last time they would see each other. He only paused a moment before racing on, quickly followed by Marjoner and the Arl’s guards. He and the few members of the pack remaining escaped through the breach, which had not yet been fully repaired. The warriors disappeared among the trees, and none had the courage to pursue them.

To be continued...

[jmsebastian]

Shadow Tower: Abyss

Shadow Tower: Abyss just didn’t grab me at first. It’s hard to say why, exactly. There’s a strong possibility that it was because I was a fatigued. After having played so much of its predecessor and the King’s Field series, the symptoms of From Software overdose were beginning to show. While From’s earlier games aren’t especially long, they are taxing and require a great deal of effort from the player to get through them, even more to get the most out of them. By the time I got around to trying Abyss, the wind was out of my sails. I wasn’t quite up to the task of playing another first person adventure RPG.

Another factor may have been the setting. The first game in the series, Shadow Tower, takes place in a world not unlike its King’s Field brethren. Sure, it’s a much weirder, darker take on fantasy. From a mechanical point of view, though there is a lot of familiar territory: melee weapons, plate armor, magic rings and items.

(And of course what would a From Software game be without reanimated skeletons?)

I thought Abyss would be more of the same. It turns out, I was wrong. Taking place at an unspecified time after the invention of the assault rifle, Abyss is unashamed about being set in a more modern era. This mainly has consequences with regard to available weapons. There is an impressive array of swords, axes, and the like, but thrown in is the aforementioned AR-15, along with other firearms from various points in history. Guns certainly felt wrong to me at first. Their inclusion seemed to betray something fundamental about From Software’s fantasy games. War involving technology has been more than adequately explored through their Armored Core series, and for me, there was just something very dissatisfying about killing unfathomable monsters with a flintlock pistol or a shotgun.

This bias prevented me from fully taking advantage of my arsenal for most of my playthrough. Eventually, the game forced my hand by pitting me against flying enemies, and groups of flying enemies that can hit hard and chase you through the level to a degree that enemies hadn’t before. While it is possible to whack these winged demons out of the sky with an accurately placed sword swipe, it is no easy task. I failed at this many, many times. I had to change my strategy and embrace the various firearms I’d neglected.

Like I said, Shadow Tower: Abyss didn’t grab me at first. That initial lack of enthusiasm now feels a little silly, especially since the very things that had turned me off are what makes it stand out in a crowded lineup of great first person RPGs. While it may feel a little strange to be carrying a flintlock pistol alongside a magic cane, discovering items crafted throughout the human timeline fills in the game’s backstory in that perfect, not obvious way. Through weapons, the timelessness of the Shadow Tower itself really sets in. Adventurers have come into the tower at various times throughout the ages, and their failure becomes your opportunity to restock or upgrade so that your chances of survival increase ever so slightly.

The firearm’s greatest contribution really is in their ability to subtly tell a story as their addition to the combat mechanics was pretty minimal. A ranged weapon is a ranged weapon, more or less. Thankfully, Abyss managed to elevate the melee mechanics to something that feels truly worthwhile. Anyone familiar with From’s earlier games will know that combat was a rigid, sometimes unpredictable affair. Hit boxes were difficult to determine and aiming your attacks imprecise. Weapons had just one attack animation, so where you were looking had to match up with an enemy’s hitbox just right in order for a hit to be registered. Side slashes from short range bladed weapons were especially difficult to master through the digital control scheme. Stiff as they were, the combat mechanics were adequate and actually enjoyable once they became familiar.

Abyss embraced analog control more than any other of the games in its family, and with purpose. While you walk around by way of the left analog stick, like you would in any modern game, the right stick is not used to move the camera. There is no free roaming camera, so turning left or right with the analog stick turns your view left or right. Looking up and down still requires the use of R2 and L2 like it did when there were only digital controls available. The right analog stick, then, is used for melee combat. Moving right on the right analog stick swings your weapon right. Moving the stick left swings left. Moving down results in a downward slash, and finally, moving up produces a stabbing action. Firearms are loaded and fired by simply clicking the right analog button.

(The gun feel is surprisingly strong for a non-shooter.)

Suddenly, combat in From Software games had feel. While they certainly can’t be blamed for their earlier designs, the addition of analog combat control felt revolutionary. It encouraged examining enemies for weak points since those could be exploited to make fights shorter and easier, a very important thing considering the whole weapon breaking mechanic. Slash a monster across the neck and watch its head drop off its shoulders. Strike downward at the shoulder and literally disarm your opponent. Fights required thought about damage types and which weapon would be most appropriate. If you came across something weak to slash damage, you wouldn’t want to equip yourself with a rapier, for instance. If you found yourself up against several agile enemies, you wouldn’t want to use a slow swinging axe to take them out.

(This never gets old.)

Another change from the King’s Field games and the original Shadow Tower is the way stamina works. In those previous games, the player had a stamina meter that would slowly refill after an attack. If you decided to attack before the gauge was full, the power of your attack would be considerably weaker. This was done to prevent players from spamming the attack button while also offering them away to get out of tight scrapes by simply stunning an enemy with an attack, even if little or no damage was dealt. For Abyss, From implemented a charge-like system. There are yellow circles in the heads up display that indicate how many attacks can be performed with that weapon before your stamina has to restore. Lighter, faster weapons generally have more yellow circles of stamina to make up for their lack of power. Stronger, heavier weapons sometimes have just two circles, so timing them well becomes paramount. This, along with the analog control, only ever appeared in Abyss, which is a real shame since they easily stand out as being the most satisfying in From’s library of first person games. As good as it is, though, it seemed as though there was still plenty of opportunity for refinement.

After successfully navigating my way to the tower, then getting through the first true area of the game, it’s safe to say I had become a fan. The improvements made to the game’s most important and frequently used mechanics made up for some of the more frustrating ones they chose to leave unaltered. Having weapons break on you in the middle of a fight never hurt any less, putting items away at the green vendor pillars so as not to go over the weight limit never turned from a chore to something I looked forward to. Those blemishes rarely distracted me from the great things about the game for long. New areas always mixed up feelings of excitement and dread in me, fighting bosses was always tense, even in those cases where the bosses themselves turned out to be fairly easy to dispatch.

I think abyss was the perfect word to use as the subtitle. There is something oddly compelling about this game, something almost supernatural. Even knowing the tropes of the genre, the mechanics to rely on, and the hallmarks of level design lousy with hidden areas and secrets, the knowledge of the methodology behind the game’s design never let me down in that classic way that pulling back the curtain usually does. It always felt like no matter how much I knew about the game, I was still only scratching the surface. Answers felt just a bit further down, just out of reach.

[wizardsnwookies]

Campaign Diary- FOC110217

The bowels of Graakus’s palace hummed with the roar of the crowd awaiting upstairs. Graalbar sat on the locker room bench checking the heft and swing of his vibro-axe. Behind him Kara paced the tiled floor, her heart beating heavily in her chest.

“Ok, just as a recap. Three rounds with a chance to catch your breath between each...not to mention to allow for additional bets. The Gamemaster likes to change things up a bit between rounds, so expect a different kind of fight each time. Oh, and traps. Watch out for those too.”

Graalbar nodded absent mindedly. He had no worries. He had proven himself against many foes in his life. His mind looked back to the cave, and the strange alien beast he encountered in the waters of the glassy lake. 

GRONK GRAAAWL

“I know, I know, it’s all taken care of so I can do it remotely.” Kara held up her data pad, currently open to link with the arena’s wager broker. “I want to be down here with you just in case...you know.”

RAAAAAWR

“ ‘Momma Bird’ my ass. I’ve got money riding on you.” Kara play hit the wookie in the shoulder, hoping her joke hid her very real concern.

Just then one of the arena assistants appeared in the doorway. It was time. The two were ushered down a long hallway ending in an explosion of light and sound. The chanting crowd growing louder with each step. When Graalbar’s bare feet felt the grit of sand he felt Kara give him one last tussle of hair for good luck.

“Give ‘em hell big guy.”

---

Rugor eased the speeder to a stop in a dark alley across from “Destructive Solutions.” The Industrial park was a maze of identical warehouses that seemed to stretch forever. Their company page on the Holonet gave out their coordinates for perspective clients and investors so luckily it wasn’t exactly difficult to find but instead a tedious zig-zag down corridors.

“The arena should be firing up right about now.” Vrssl checked his chrono. They had made a pass around the building noting the single guard at the front gate and the handful of cameras around the perimeter. “Tracks with what Charmer told us, place looks like a ghost town.”

“That just means they’re all inside.” Rugor cut the engine and pulled out a small vibro-blade. “You ready?”

“Let’s let ourselves in.” Vrssl nodded, slipping out of the speeder and leading the scarred Gungan through the shadows and blind spots around the building. Like Courecant, Nar Shaddaa never got quiet, even when the sounds of the city were to a dull hum as it was here in the outskirts, it was still enough to hide their footfalls.

Rugor cut through the durasteel fence with his vibroblade and peeled back and opening. Once inside he carefully let it fall back into place, lining it up as close as he could. They hadn’t seen anyone walking the perimeter, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

The side door was just as simple to disarm. Rugor pulled off the access panel and jacked in with his datapad. A few taps and the door slid open to a hallway with lights dimmed to the energy saver setting. Vrssl held up a hand and creeped ahead, listening. The usual sounds were there, the hum of the HVAC system, a few random groans of the plastasteel settling, but a complete absence of footfalls. He turned and waved back at Rugor, they were in. Time to get to work.

---

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I welcome you all to a very special evening.” Graakus’s voice echoed over the sound system. He stood on his mechanical legs on the edge of his special box seat, arms open to the crowd. “We have seen many fighters on the sands, we have seen Aqualish, Gand, and Devorian. The Game Master has shown us a menagerie of beasts from all over the Galaxy. But tonight, you will witness the mighty Wookie of Kashyyk!!”

Graalbar pumped his arms and bellowed for the crowds approval, striding across the sands with an exaggerated gate. His people had been seen as savage monsters by the empire, this mentality tended to bleed out across the galaxy. In cases like these he would play it up as much as he can. Let them think I’m a monster, let them fear me. For I am Graalbar, I am mighty.

“Returning tonight from their triumph over the vicious Correlian Sand Panthers, a creature hailing from the savage sands of Tatooine. They have proven themselves against beast and the harshest of environments. Welcome back, your champion!” Graakus smiled and let the roar of the crowd wash over him. He had chosen his words very carefully. He knew the Tusken Raider was no match for the Wookie, in fact, he doubted anything the Game Master could throw against him would. But we must let the crowd thing otherwise. The odds are indeed against him 5 to 1. However last week many had lost thousands with the surprise upset against the Sand Panther. They would be playing it safe. He was hoping they would, and continue to lose it all.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the final bets have been placed.” The crowd fell to a dull murmor, tickets clutched in fists and hearts leaping into their throats. “Let the games begin!”

The raider howled and sprinted across the sand, its arms raised high with a heavy staff clutched in hand. Graalbar simply waited and planted his feet firmly where he stood. As the creature came closer he saw it was no larger than an average human. A shame, he thought, this would be all too easy.

A large gust of air tussled the hair on the side of Graalbar’s face as his opponent struck the first blow and made contact with empty space. The wookie needed only to take a single step to the side before lifting his axe and send it crashing down across the exposed backside. Blood splattered onto the sands with a bark from the bandaged humanoid. It stumbled, turning to face its attacker with swaying legs. 

It was wounded, but not down. Taking an agressive stance it swung again in a heavy horizontal swipe. Graalbar chuckled to himself and lightly batted the stick away as if it were a child’s toy. With his opponent off-balanced Graalbar lowered his shoulder and pushed hard against the raider’s chest, sending a puff of air out of it’s lungs and toppling it over into the sand.

The crowd was on it’s feet the minute the raider was on it’s back. Graalbar pumped his arms and bellowed once more, playing to the crowd. He fell to his knees, strattling his oppenent and grabbed the filthy cloth of it’s robes. The humanoid’s limp torso was lifted up just long enough to meet a hardened wookie skull against it’s own before falling back into a ragdoll. Graalbar smiled to himself, he had felt the satisfying crunch against his forhead, he felt his opponent's skull cave in. It would be dead within moments. But that was not enough. The crowd was hungry for a show and he would give it to them.

Taking a wrist in each hand, Graalbar drew on all his strength and yanked back until a horrid tearing could be heard in the stands. Flesh tore at the shoulder and with a pop the bones were released from joints until two severed arms dangled in the air. Blood feel from the torn ends and soaked into his fur. He offered a victorious bellow before rising to his feet. One round already cleared. All too easy.

---

“Blasted piece of junk.” Rugor slammed his palm against the side of his datapad and offered it a few curses in his native tongue before sliding it back into his pocket. They had almost gotten themselves lost on the way to the utility room. Not long after finding a terminal to download the facility maps, his datapad had decided to freeze and unceremoniously reboot itself. Damn latest software update still had some bugs in it. He’d have to take a look at it when they got back.

“Don’t worry about it, here.” Vrssl tossed the Gungan an explosive charge. “Put this on that support beam over there. I’ll get the power generator.” Part one of their mission was almost taken care of, leveling the facility on their way out. This would be accomplished through some lovely remote charges Vrssl managed to acquire thanks to some contacts in Shail. He had a knack for that, making connections, acquaintances, friends, and sure a few enemies too. He wasn’t in the city for a few hours before he had already found someone to help him make things go boom. Priorities...

“Done, think this’ll be enough?”

“Definitely, especially with a damaged power generator. Hell, that’ll do most of job for us. Like they say, ‘work smart, not hard.’”

The Gungan nodded. “This way.”

With his datapad back up and running they managed to find their way to the production floor, a wide open room filled with benches, tables, and manufacturing equipment lining the walls. Vrssl activated the lights and saw the shine of plastisteel and chrome.

“Time for the fringe benefits.”

Apparently “Destructive Solutions” wasn’t all too concerned about cleanliness. In fact, it appeared that most of the staff dropped whatever they were working on and walked out the door the moment the chrono hit five. A small startup company, probably filled with creative types and idealists, it would make sense. Most of the products left out were in progress, wires dangling without connections, half soldered program boards and the like. However after scouring the room Rugor did manage to find three numbered files with corresponding products, tagged and ready for display.

“Vrssl. Over here.”

“What’d we get?”

Rugor took the files and read the final notes at the end of the registry for each one aloud...

“SN-35810: Experimenting with refining Tibanna gas has resulted in a blaster bolt that hold a higher than normal negative polarity. Unfortunately this raises the risk of Ricochets that could become friendly fire in the field which has earned this model the nickname “The Ricochet Gun” around the lab. Needless to say, this is not suitable for market.”

“SN-42179: We’ve been tinkering with Vibro technology in hopes to find a way to lower power consumption and overall create a sleeker and more compact handle. We’ve managed to find success in the smaller profile weapons, so the next step was to adapt this to swords and axes. This axe has been put through rigorous testing and has passed our high expectations. A final, more polished design to be scheduled for debut at the next trade show.”

“SN-857321: One of our techs decided to think out of the box with this one. Something he’s calling a ‘competency droid.’ A small scale, non-autonomous unit crammed with every kind of sensor you can think of. No one is quite sure how he managed it, but I am sure someone upstairs is paying him a hefty bonus for the secret. Linked to the operator via visor display, the droid sends readings to the user on their surroundings and their own bio readings which is a wealth of information for military units. The Empire will love this one.”

Vrssl smiled and took the Vibroaxe in one hand. “I know someone who’s going to LOVE you.”

---

Graalbar pressed himself against the stone boulder, the phosphorus torch dripping sparks onto the sand next to him. He gave him this, the Gamemaster was good at his job. The second round saw a dousing of the house lights, leaving the arena lit solely by three torches spread out across the circle. Graalbar heard the door across from him slide open, a shadow streaked across the blackness of his vision, and four paws almost in perceptively padded out onto the sands before disappearing completely into oblivion.

A Vornskr was what Graakus had called it when he announced open bidding for the second round. A taste of things to come. Kara came back with 37,500 credits to their name from the first round. Without batting an eye the wookie told her to let it ride. He was feeling confident. Now, he was hiding behind a rock with a torch in his hands waiting for whatever a Vornskr was to strike from the darkness.

The attack came from behind when a slender canine creature with a whip-like tail darted from the shadows and lunched with claws extended. Graalbar’s vibroaxe was ready and waiting, and cut a long gash across the beasts muzzle. It whined in the shock of the pain, or perhaps it was the sudden roar from the silent stands. It was hard to tell. It recovered quickly and latched onto Graalbar’s grieves, it’s teeth sinking deep into the plastisteel.

The wookie was surprised at the strength the small creature possessed, no matter how hard he swung his mighty arm, it would not release the Vornskr’s jaws. No matter. Graalbar took the other hand an tried to grab the back of it’s head. He was large enough that he might be able to lift the thing of the ground and throw it down into a pin with one hand. But the beast sensed the danger in the situation and escaped the crushing grasp by seconds, disengaging before disappearing once again into the dark.

The crowd was chanting for him once again, giving Graalbar the boost of confidence needed to venture forth with his torch. It would not escape him for a second attack. The wookie ran into the direction of the beast’s retreat and found it stopped before the wall, turning for a new approach. A low rumble grew in it’s throat and a blur of motion sprung from it’s back end.

Graalbar ducked just in time to feel the air cut before his face and a trickle of liquid mist into his fur. His own attack with the torch missed by a wide margin in his dodging the poison barb at the end of the Vornskr’s tail. Poison. The stakes had suddenly gotten much higher.

---

“And with that, Blastek now is the proud owner of the entirety of Destructive Solutions’ hard drives.” Rugor was all business when the light on the data slug turned green. This was a job, nothing more. He had no stake in corporate espionage...but he could. “So...we were told we could have anything we found here right?”

“Yeah?” Vrssl looked up from his examination of the droid they found in the development lab.

“I’m just thinking if we can make a little more out of this job.” Rugor tapped on the computer terminal in the server room. They had made their way here to complete the second part of their job, all of DS’s data. Along the way they finally managed to find a pair of guards roaming the halls, but were able to keep out of sight until they passed.

“Bingo.”

“What?”

“How does three crates of consumer-ready blaster rifles and pistols sound to you?” Rugor offered Vrssl a smirk.

“Sounds like fringe benefits if I ever heard of them. Where?”

“In the docking bay. Scheduled to go out tomorrow. Looks like we got here just in time.”

“Guess we know where our next stop is. What about the cameras? Can you wipe the data just in case?”

Rugor switched his attention and brought up the securities folder, once inside he scrolled through the file listing before furrowing his brow. “Looks like it only dumps the files 24 hours at a time to the central computer. Until 6am the current day’s data lives on the security computer.”

“Can you hack into it from here, crash their hard drives?”

“Of course I can. They’re on the same network...”

“But...”

“BUT if someone is working on the computer right now, they’ll notice I��ve got remote access. If they know what they’re doing they’ll be able to trace back the IP address and know we’re in the building.”

Vrssl knew droids, but computers were something different. He didn’t fully understand what was just said, but he got the gist of it. “Our only other option is to bust into the security room and take care of it manually.”

“Arena Fights or not, someone’s damn sure going to notice that.”

“Not much of a choice then...do it.”

---

Graalbar wasn’t much for thinking, he’d much rather hit a problem until it stopped moving. But when the problem had a whip-like tail with a poisoned barb, was black as the shadows, and could move twice as fast as he could, he was forced to put his mind to work.

The Vornskr paced in the dirt in front of him, making it’s own tactical calculations in it’s head. It’s long form seemed to curve fluidly as it turned in on itself. It was fast, yes, but it also had a long body. Too long to protect easily. That was his advantage.

Graalbar gripped the handle of his Virbroaxe and dug his feet into the dirt. He had a plan of attack now, it was just a matter of waiting. But the crowd was not content to be as patient as he was. Cheers were now starting to become bloodthirsty screams for the continuation of violence.

It sprung mid-stride, almost taking the wookie by surprise. Damn it was fast. The canine form was a blur of teeth and fangs with clouds of sand exploding between massive paws. I leaped about a full meter away with claws outstretched and jaws open wide. Behind it, it’s tail wound back ready to strike.

Graalbar unsprung the coiled muscles in his calves and spun to the side. Biceps flexed and he brought his axe around in an arc, rolling his shoulder he brought it down in a massive swing and felt the shock pulse up his arm as the blade made contact with the center of the Vornskr’s spine. Even through the sudden cheer of the crowd, Graalbar could hear the sickening knock of vertebrae coming undone.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, what an evening we have been treated to.” Graakus had to bellow over the crowd, even with amplification. “Brawn has proven itself over the nimble grace of the Vornskr, but there is one more round left and I have been promised a fight like no other from our Gamemaster. Please find your way to the wager booth and place your bets. We will commence in 10 minutes!”

Kara met Graalbar at the gate with a bottle of water and a forced smile on her face. “187,500 credits...”

GRAAWR RAWWR

“Yeah, I’ve been reading the arena staff down here...nobody’s let it slip but it sounds big whatever it is.” She looked up at him and blinked away something, fear maybe. “Whatever, you can take it, right?”

WAAARW GRAAAG

“...come on, don’t...don’t do that.” Kara didn’t know why she was getting so upset hearing Graalbar talk about the possibility of his death. She had only known him for a few months. It was silly, she told herself. Before Kessel she was her own woman without any strings attached. No family...no friends. That was a good thing...right? Nothing to hold her back? She wasn’t so sure anymore.

RAWWWR GRAAAAH

“150,000 on the final round, the rest to the rest of is if...if the impossible happens. Fine. I’ll do it. Just make sure I won’t have to worry about that OK?”

RAWWWR GRAWW RAW

“ ‘Next time we meet, we’ll be rich.’ Yeah, you got that right buddy.”

When Graalbar returned to the sands of the arena the lights had returned, and all blood from previous rounds had been raked clear. It was like nothing ever happened. Above and around him his name was chanted back at him by who knows how many. In his private box, Graakus offered him his own nod of approval.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the honor of announcing the final fight tonight. Below us stands a warrior like we have never seen before, and this final round shall decide whether we will have the honor to see him battle again.”

Graalbar felt a small tremor beneath his feet. Looking down he could see small pebbles bounce into the air with each shake of the ground. He hadn’t noticed the grating sound of the gate across from him until now. And when he peered into the darkness behind it, a pair of small beady eyes stared back at him.

“For tonight, this wookie of Kyshyyk faces the towering terror...the nightmare of many brave species...tonight, he faces. The Rancor!”

Kara heard the announcement on her way back from the wager booth and felt her whole body go numb. She looked up to the monitors mounted on the ceiling to see a massive beast with claws as big as it’s head stalk out into the arena.

“Awww slag.” She said.

---

“Awww slag.” Rugor cursed as the door to the docking bay opened to four uniformed men, who seemed just as surprised to see them as they were to be caught.

“You!! Stop what you’re doing!” The guard fired first, sending a bolt of energy searing into Rugor’s shoulder. He was nervous, inexperienced, and honestly just wanted a quiet night to watch the fights. He was so not prepared for this.

Rugor ducked behind the grav lift and pulled out his own pistol. Vrssl swore and hid behind the crates of blasters. “Damn, how did they know we were here? Someone rat us out?”

Rugor shook his head. “Does it matter?”

“Take them alive.” Vrssl stepped out from cover and unloaded his sub repeater. The two guards that had made it past the door ducked behind two large spools of wire being stored off to the side. Behind them the remaining security staff ran through the door towards cover.

Rugor checked his wound as blaster bolts were traded across the large room. He’d live, but it hurt like hell. Before long Vrssl appeared alongside to take cover. “They’re dug in pretty good there. Think you can give me a hand?”

The slowly eased up from behind the wire bails as their opponents suddenly went silent. Could they be surrendering? Were they really that lucky? From behind the grav lift, a shimmering blue ball arced up into the air before exploding into heavy concussive gell, shattering the plastasteel spools and sending shrapnel into the two unlucky enough to be using it for cover.

“Nice shot. One down, one still alive, but not happy from the looks like it.” Vrrsl chanced a peek and set his blaster to stun. “Two more to go.”

“KRRRTZZZ -- You guys check the computer room yet? They brought in a slagging Rancor!!” The guard’s comm link exploded with excitement, sounding off his location to the sensitive ears behind the grav lift. The guards response was cut off by a stun pulse that buckled his knees, pitching him forward into a heap.

“Make that one more to go...did he say ‘Rancor?’“

---

Graalbar’s bowcaster bolt struck the Rancor in it’s meaty neck, or what could be best guessed as the neck.The thing was ugly, what wasn’t muscle were scars and folds and teeth and claws. It held a vague semblance to that thing he encountered in the glassy lake, only bigger.

The ugly thing bellowed and recoiled from the shot before turning its beady eyes into a death glare at the wookie behind the rock. A clawed foot took a single stride that covered several meters. It wasn’t so much fast, as it was large enough to cover a lot of ground in a single step. More than Graalbar anticipated. He could smell the things breath now. It smelled of death. Maybe his if he didn’t wasn’t careful.

Suddenly a sharp metal CLANG rang out and an explosion of dust and blood clouded the area around the things foot. It screamed and stumbled back, careful to not put too much weight on the injured appendage. When the dust cleared Graalbar saw them, several large spikes protruding from the ground. Gamemaster’s traps. He had almost forgotten about them, he had been lucky so far as to not trip them. He’d like to keep it that way.

Staying behind his rock Graalbar slung the bowcaster and hoisted his vibroaxe just as the Rancor renewed it’s approach. He swung at an outstretched claw, opening a gash along the wrist as sped by him, but in return he felt several wounds open up along his chest as long talons clawed into flesh. The pain was excruciating, and frightening. In a single blow he felt much of his strength leave him. He looked at the crowd, who were now just as happy to cheer for his blood as they were his victory one short round ago.

No. It would not end here. At least not without a fight. Graalbar searched inside him and found the primal rage within, and set it loose. His mighty bellow echoed through the arena, far more animalistic than before, more primal. Saliva spat from his open mouth, and the grip on his axe renewed. The following moments were a blur of rage and blood.

He remembered a clawed hand reaching for him, and then seeing it fall from the arm and into a pool of blood upon the sand. 

He remembered the thing stumbling back. He remembered swinging against something hard. Swinging so hard he though his arms would break.

He remembered the thing fall to the ground before him, a foot left standing in place.

He remembered screaming. He remembered hacking. Again. Again. Again. More blood now. Much more blood. He remembered hearing it’s scream.

He remembered when it all fell to silence.

Graalbar looked down, his rage leaving him, and saw what he had wrought. The Rancor no longer breathed, it’s head had rolled from it’s stump of a neck and sat pooling at his feet. Blood drenched his fur. And the his ears filled with the sound of cheering.

---

Rugor carried the last of the stunned guards to the speeder and dumped him in the back. In all, four had either been stunned or outright surrendered, including the guard at the gate. Vrssl finished attatching the gravlift to the back before coming round to the passenger side door.

“Not bad for a night’s work.”

“What do you think we’ll get out of them?” Rugor nodded to the unconscious bodies crowding the back seat.

“I dunno.” Vrssl shrugged. “First and foremost how they knew we were there. And if someone tipped them off, who. This may be tied to the leak with Charmer. Either way, can’t hurt to play it safe.”

“Suppose not.” Rugor opened the door and slid into the pilot’s seat, adjusting the rear mirror to see over the bodies. “How do you think Graalbar did tonight?”

Vrssl just smiled. “I’m sure he made us all very rich.”

[planar-echoes]

Preparation (Dominaria) By Nik Davidson (5/29/13)

"There's no such thing as a fair fight."

The artificer had been at work for thirty hours straight, and she was exhausted. This wasn't the longest stretch she had worked on a project, not by half. But those projects had been driven by the muse, by love, or by inspiration. Those had been works of joy. Joy fills the soul during times like those. There was no joy in this work. A dozen different timepieces of varying size and make all ticked away, counting down the hours to her execution.

She didn't have the power for a spell like this, so she had to cheat. The first step was the amplification circle: Five feet in diameter, silver filigree etched in fresh black marble. More than six hundred unique runes in the outermost circle, then seven smaller rune circles, perfectly concentric, detailing the precise time, location, and energy level of the spell that would target it. It would need to be flawless. If it worked, it would allow her to pull off a feat of magic that even her old mentor would have hesitated to try. Otherwise, the spell would fail in one of an infinite number of spectacular ways. Almost none of those ways involved her walking away.

A small insect-like construct brought her a new chisel, fresh plates of silver inlay, and a glass of cold water. She grabbed a rag, wiped her hands and forehead, and pushed a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes. She had seven hours before she needed to be back in her cell, and she was nowhere near done.

The artificer stared at the spell circle. She squinted. Her eyes burned, dry from too much detail work and not nearly enough sleep. She saw no flaws, but this was worth checking a second time. And a third. She gave it a satisfied nod before turning to her workbench.

There sat a small crystal sphere with an orange light swirling inside. She took a deep breath and picked it up very carefully. With slow, deliberate steps, she walked it over to the spell circle, and set it down very slowly. It made a small "tink" sound as she let go, and she winced... a long second passed, and she slowly exhaled. She backed away from the sphere and wiped her forehead again. With a mischievous smile, she took a piece of paper from her desk, jotted a quick note on it, and then placed it next to the sphere. Two steps down. Now the hard part.

Channeling this much energy hurt. The room was filled with an unearthly blue light—the artificer had conjured an opaque magical dome of force, nearly as tall as she was, that completely covered the spell circle. Her face was locked into a pained grimace, her teeth grinding from the effort, as she put everything she had into creating a perfect barrier. She didn't have any shortcuts for this bit of magic; she just poured everything in her mind and heart and soul into the dome, and held absolutely nothing back. She wanted to stop. She needed to stop. But the part of her that had been hammered into steel through decades of tireless work knew something else—she knew that she needed to hold the spell for a few more seconds. Seconds that trickled by like hours. That crept like days. She was screaming now, but she couldn't hear herself.

The spell came to an end with an explosion. It sent her flying across the room, skipping off the top of her cluttered workbench, and smashing into a bookshelf. Countless gizmos and half-finished projects were smashed, dozens of beakers shattered, and sheaves of paper were launched into the air. The spell circle, and everything it contained, had been completely annihilated by the device.

As the papers fluttered to the ground, the room was filled with the ringing sound of a young woman, flat on her back, bruised and aching, laughing at the top of her lungs.

The artificer was shaken awake by one of her traveling companions—a merchant who had been captured along with her a week before. Unlike her, he didn't have the good fortune of being able to transport himself away to safety. So when she found out these barbarians were planning on killing her and her companions as part of some crazy solstice ritual, she briefly considered just teleporting away and leaving them to their fate. Briefly. But then she learned that she'd be allowed to fight, champion against champion, as part of the ceremony. That sounded like fun, and abandoning these poor people to their deaths did not.

A ritually painted and fur-clad man with arms as big around as the artificer's waist glared at her through the bars of her cell. He knew she was a mage, but she had been careful not to cast any spells that would draw attention during her supposed "captivity." She had been transporting herself to and from her laboratory fairly freely at night, but if they had noticed, they hadn't given any sign.

The man grunted, opened the cage door, and gestured for the artificer to follow. The camp was clearly prepared for a day of celebration. The rough tents all had some kind of ribbon or ornamentation, and a ring of barricades had been assembled for the contest. If she didn't know the purpose of all of this was to be bloody ritual combat, followed by a series of murderous sacrifices to a sun god, she would have thought the display quite festive. The sun was bright in a perfectly clear sky. She couldn't have asked for a nicer day. She was led to a small pen at the edge of the ring. Her guard grunted and gestured for her to wait. She did.

The tribe started to gather around the contest ring, and the barbarian champion was already being prepared by the tribe's shaman and his acolytes. Even from across the field, the artificer could feel the immense power they were wielding. Whether learned in the academy or some stinking mud hut, power was power. Too many at the academy thought that when you bind power in a book, you gain a monopoly over it. Too few of them remained to regret that line of thinking.

The assembled crowd started to chant their champion's name, a young warrior who looked to be in the prime of his life—tall, lean, muscled, and unscarred, with thick dark hair in a loose braid down his back.

"GRELL! GRELL! GRELL! GRELL!"

The shamans concluded their ritual and raised their arms for silence. It was somewhat disquieting just how quickly the tribe went perfectly still. To the artificer's ears, the shaman sounded like any other charlatan preacher—a deep, booming voice with a little edge of menace in his tone to keep the crowd in line.

"HEAR ME! We, the children of the light that warms us, we, the children of the summer plains! We give thanks to the most mighty on this, the longest of days, when the one who burns above is mightiest of all!"

A roar came up from the crowd, right on cue, then quickly subsided.

"In his honor, we offer a show of our strength! In his honor, we offer a show of our devotion! In his honor, we offer the blood of our enemies!"

Another cry from the crowd.

"We have given our champion all of the sun's blessings! We have given him all of our might!"

At this, two men entered the ring, one with what looked to be small tree trunk, and the other a metal bucket.

"On this day, our strength can withstand any blow!" The man with the tree trunk swung it like a club, and it shattered into splinters when it struck Grell. The crowd roared.

"On this day, our will can withstand any flames!" The man with the bucket threw its contents over Grell—oil—that burst into flames. Grell stood, wreathed in the fire, unmarred. The crowd gasped, then screamed its awed approval.

"Son of the tribe, while the light of the longest day shines upon your skin, you are INVINCIBLE!"

The artificer swallowed hard. She had been prepared for all this, researched it all as soon as she understood what was planned for the captives, but facing off against an invincible foe was unsettling, despite her precautions. The shaman turned his eyes on her.

"You there, challenger of the outlands? I am told you are a great warrior among your people!"

A chuckle rippled through the crowd.

"I can fight," she said.

"And a great wizard as well! This is what your fellows say of you! Are you a great wizard, champion?"

"Not nearly as great as some." There was a note of sadness in her voice.

"And you willingly take on the fates of the outlanders under your protection? Your fate shall be theirs?"

"Let's just get this over with."

A variety of weapons were brought forth for her to choose from. She took a small dagger from the rack and strode out into the middle of the ring. Grell had been handed a pair of small stone axes. Drums started to roar, and the crowd followed suit.

Grell's face was a manic grin. The artificer had no idea how much energy was being channeled through the man, but it was a lot, and chances were he was feeling good. With a well-practiced gesture, she sent two bolts of flame streaking toward him, and in a shower of embers, they spattered across his chest. He was unharmed, of course. Grell raised his arms in triumph to the crowd. The artificer gritted her teeth.

She rushed at him, dagger in a reverse grip. She slashed at his face, and Grell jumped back. The instinct to get out of the blade's path was still there, even though he knew she couldn't hurt him. He leapt at her, taking careful, powerful swings with the axes, but the artificer rolled deftly out of the way.

As she rolled through the dust, she palmed a small object from her belt. When he charged at her again, she tossed it at him—a tiny construct, shaped like an ant, with a reservoir of a glowing cyan liquid in its abdomen. It sprang to life, and latched unnoticed on to Grell's loincloth, providing the anchor for the artificer's next spell.

She managed to duck under Grell's next swing, but his massive forearm caught her across the chest on the backswing—the force of it lifted her off the ground. She hit the ground hard, and pulled herself up to one knee. Grell raised his arms again in triumph, taking in the adulation of the crowd before delivering the intended killing blow, when the artificer whispered the word of power that released all of her prepared magic.

"Let's see if this worked."

There was a slight pop, and Grell vanished from sight.

Grell blinked. There air was cold here, and it tasted wrong. He found himself trapped inside an opaque magical dome of force, glowing with blue swirls of arcane energy. On the ground was a small glowing sphere and a handwritten note. He pounded his fists against the barrier, but it absorbed his strikes without making a sound. The glowing sphere was brightening, and the orange light inside looked increasingly... unstable. It began to emit a high-pitched hum, and it started to shake. Frantic, he looked at the note.

The solstice is tomorrow. I win.

—Jhoira

[efficientc-blog1]

Super Rude Bear Resurrection Review

Super Rude Bear Resurrection is one of the hardest games I’ve ever played–but only at times. Certain games, Resident Evil 4 being a famous example, use a dynamic difficulty system, invisibly adjusting to keep the action challenging but not frustrating. Super Rude Bear Resurrection does something similar, only in a much more obvious, tangible way.

It’s a hardcore platformer in the mold of Super Meat Boy, but with a novel twist that gives meaning to the countless deaths you’ll suffer throughout. Corpses persist after death and can be used to create a safer path through levels (where one false step will send you back to the last checkpoint). In essence, almost every death serves to make the game slightly easier–though you can also clear levels without ever dying. It’s a delightful concept that further enhances a game that’s already strong thanks to its wealth of ideas and fantastic soundtrack.

At its most basic, Super Rude Bear Resurrection is a fairly straightforward platformer, tasking you with navigating stages filled with all manner of deadly spikes, arrows, swinging axes, more spikes, and creatures that toss snowballs at you harmlessly–until those snowballs just nudge you to your doom. You’ll maneuver through levels using simple jumps and wall jumps. You have no offensive capabilities, and the game doesn’t offer any special abilities to unlock or power-ups to find. You could, in theory, complete any level right from the get-go, although it’ll likely take dozens–or, more likely, hundreds–of deaths before you’re able to consistently overcome the trickiest obstacles.

The level design shows a tremendous amount of care on the part of developer Alex Rose Games. Stages are meticulously crafted to maximize difficulty without feeling unfair, but they’re also created in a way that allows for corpses to ease your path. A carcass might block incoming arrows or give you a safe spot in a row of spikes to jump on, and it can destroy certain traps when it comes into contact with them.

It’s easy for the corpses to pile up, particularly due to the way Super Rude Bear Resurrection’s levels toy with you. The game plays with your expectations and sets up hazards to punish you for relying on anticipation, rather than your reactions. Many deaths stem from hazards located immediately after checkpoints–these are seemingly placed for the explicit purpose of punishing your eagerness to immediately get back into the action after respawning. You can practically hear Alex Rose chuckling to himself every time you rush into an easily avoidable death. That might explain the mocking remarks of your floating companion, who also delivers the story (and jokes), allows you to destroy corpses in your path, and lets you scout out the areas ahead.

Super Rude Bear Resurrection isn’t an especially long game, although seeking out no-death runs, better leaderboard rankings, secret worlds, and dialogue (easy to miss the first time around) provides ample incentive for multiple playthroughs. The primary upside to not being long is also what’s most impressive about Super Rude Bear: it never runs out of steam. It feels fresh from beginning to end thanks to the way it consistently sprinkles in new types of challenges over the course of the entire game. Falling spikes, NPCs with hammers, arrow launchers, homing missiles, spinning lasers–you won’t play for long without encountering a new idea.

Some of these new ideas introduce interesting ways of interacting with corpses. Deaths caused by missiles and lasers freeze your body into an ice block. In the case of the missiles, ice blocks can provide stepping stones over a gap or block further missiles from being fired, while lasers pull the ice in, thereby preventing the lasers from reaching you on your next life.

“On the strength of its pacing and basic mechanics alone, Super Rude Bear Resurrection would make for an extremely engaging platformer. The addition of its corpse mechanic elevates it to something greater.”

Further adding to the variety are the boss fights littered throughout, each with its own unique gimmick that doesn’t feel at odds with the platforming framework of the game. One tasks you with avoiding spikes and the attacks of a breakdancing robot while standing on a rising platform. Another requires you to ride a moving platform through an otherwise standard level while avoiding a flying enemy that attempts to knock you off or crush you. The latter was particularly memorable, as being knocked down doesn’t guarantee death; provided you’re skilled enough, you can jump off of the boss itself and potentially recover. Whereas the bosses in Super Meat Boy have always felt to me more like obstacles that stand in the way of returning to the regular action, Super Rude Bear’s boss stages were among my favorites in the game.

Later levels ask a lot, requiring an almost-superhuman level of precision to complete without a death–an accomplishment I couldn’t even begin to sniff over the last quarter of the game. Yet, because of instant respawns and an excuse to continue listening to the stellar soundtrack, I never found myself frustrated, even when a particular section would cause me to die dozens of times. In fact, it was often hard not to laugh as I amassed an abundance of corpses (every one of which is dumped into a pile from the top of the screen at the conclusion of a level, just as a reminder). These attempts where I clearly wasn’t going to set a new time on the leaderboards often became fun experiments to see just how much I could screw with the design of the level.

In certain cases, the game actually becomes far too easy with even just a few deaths. Thankfully, if you find that to be the case, higher difficulty settings restrict the ability to destroy traps, leave behind corpses, and even use checkpoints. These options give you the flexibility to make the game as difficult as you want, which is great, since it’s most satisfying when played at the highest difficulty you can tolerate. The thrill of making it through a tough level with little help is matched by few other platformers I’ve ever played.

Not everything is quite so well executed, however. Visually, the game isn’t always clear about where you can safely stand or whether a corpse will protect you–spikes or blades sometimes extend beyond a body but won’t hurt you. The lack of an overworld is disappointing, if inessential, but the inability to access leaderboards anytime other than at the end of a level feels like an unfortunate oversight. A glitch when changing difficulties would cause the sound to drop out until I paused and unpaused the action. And certain level elements, such as falling icicles, are occasionally triggered before they should be after a respawn, which requires a quick death to reset. Because this only happened after a death, it never cost me a flawless run, but it was nonetheless a small source of frustration.

For all of these minor gripes, none of them stand in the way of enjoying nearly every second of playtime. On the strength of its pacing and basic mechanics alone, Super Rude Bear Resurrection would make for an extremely engaging platformer. The addition of its corpse mechanic elevates it to something greater, allowing it to simultaneously serve as an extreme challenge for the most diehard platforming fans as well as a game that can be enjoyed by the novice crowd. Super Rude Bear Resurrection demands a lot from you, but the satisfaction of success is immense in the end.

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Vikings - S4E20 - The Reckoning

What an ending! So many beloved characters lost this season, and this episode is responsible for three. As the Vikings accomplished their destiny to avenge Ragnar and gain English soil, the episode progressed from muddy battlefields and deep shadows in Wessex to streams of light and a glowing sunset, evoking the joint wills of the gods and God. Then, “The Reckoning.” The players began to fall, from the most predictable to least, and in order of show seniority. Helga’s fatal mistake in claiming Tanaruz turns upon her when the frightened girl stabs her and kills herself. Ecbert commits suicide by way of self-execution after granting land to the Ragnarssons. And Sigurd and Ivar’s lifelong resentments explode into violence at the celebratory feast, with Ivar cutting his famous brother down for all to see. There is much to say.

Long Live the King

Ecbert shivers as Aethelwulf’s army clashes with the Vikings, mud flying. Every named warrior acquits themselves impressively but once Aethelwulf finally hits the ground, time slows and he sees the tide turning, an influx of fresh warriors led by Ivar. He orders his men to save themselves, rushing back to Wessex to hustle everyone to safety, but Ecbert and Bishop Edmund are unmovable. Instead, Ecbert asks for his trust, granting Aethelwulf the crown in a simple ceremony. That this is satisfying says volumes about the depth of Moe Dunford’s acting, in that we have watched him grow from a two-dimensional snarling prince, to his nearing arch-villainy as he murdered the settlers at a hastily-built burning cross; from there he discovered love and heroism with Kwenthrith, took his bastard foster son on a pilgrimage, learned to accept Judith’s independence, and proved himself as a general. With the stone Celtic cross behind him last episode and his father’s acceptance won at last, Aethelwulf has solidified as the strong-minded, multifaceted king England needs.

Ecbert kisses them all goodbye, telling Judith as she thanks him (what?!), “Love is everything.” To Alfred, he wishes humility and final words of wisdom. To Aethelred… well, him, too. With arms wrapped collegially, he and the bishop cheer them away, even tossing the mitre. Once they’re gone, however, the cheering turns to sobbing. Light shines over the gate. God’s will be done.

The Reckoning

While Ecbert and Edmund drain the wine cellars, the Great Army crests the hill, charging through the gates, but there’s no need: Wessex is empty. Confused, they venture into the buildings. Athelstan’s former manuscript room is the first to go as Floki puts the wall of scrolls to the torch. But they don’t find Ecbert, so he drunkenly stumbles out into the crowd until he catches Bjorn’s eye, then smiles, patting him. A face he knows. Upon finding Edmund, Floki pauses as the bishop forgives them, but Hvitserk strikes him down.

They cage Ecbert as he did Ragnar, debating his fate as he swings. Ivar wants to blood eagle him, but, with complete Ragnar mannerisms and punctuation, Bjorn lectures that they’re now in enemy territory and must use him wisely. Ecbert indicates he can mostly understand and, touting his authority as “king of kings,” he offers them East Anglia (east of Wessex) in exchange for choosing the manner of his death. Eventually Ivar warms up to the deal and Bjorn approves, a twist on history where Ivar left Egbert I as a puppet king—in this case he’s a willing one. Not without one signature Ecbert betrayal, however: he’s no longer a king. Will this prove a problem for the Vikings, for Aethelwulf, or both? Both he and Ragnar leave the last man to see them alive without all of the pertinent information.

A harried scribe draws up the contract without such comments, Ecbert reassuring him magnanimously. Bjorn then leads Ecbert to the Roman baths and nods goodbye. There in the warm water where he conversed with Ragnar, Athelstan, and Lagertha, surrounded by the heathen curiosities he loved so much, Ecbert opens his veins and dies. Although his time had come, he will be missed. Linus Roache elevated Ecbert to a formidable foil for all who shared the screen with him.

Helga

As the Vikings rush into the gate, Helga brings Tanaruz in as well, hustling the terrified girl through the palace halls as they burn. Overwhelmed by fear and Helga’s fretting, Tanaruz grabs Helga’s knife and stabs her in the neck, then kills herself. Floki, drawn to the hallway by Helga’s singing moments before, finds her dying.

“You’re not like anybody else. Be yourself, Floki. This world is too small for you.”

At sunset, he carries her body to the great tree and gently arranges her grave, laying jewelry and combs around her as he speaks of the pure god Baldr‘s death. Baldr’s mother had made all the objects in the realm swear not to hurt him, but thought mistletoe was too young to swear, and by this, he was killed with a mistletoe arrow of Loki’s design, accidentally wielded by his brother. An appropriate comparison, between Helga’s defining lack of cunning and the young Tanaruz, who was not of their realm, and Floki now feels responsible.

Bjorn watches from afar, then finds Floki in darkness to offer condolences. Floki says he, too, is dead. A part of him died with Angrboda, another with Ragnar, and the last with Helga. Now he’s a rudderless ship, willing to go where the gods take him. He stands, stares at Bjorn’s third eye wonderingly, and blesses it in his way, then walks into the light, his darkness swallowed.

I am of two minds about this. Emotionally, Maude Hirst and Gustaf Skarsgard use every bit of feeling we’ve invested into them. Visually, it is a beautiful call to archaeological finds of Viking women burials in the area, essentially archaeology fanfiction. Thematically, it is a way that tragedy buried can revisit us, and the words themselves were loaded with the religious depth and tenderness unique to Helga and Floki. Holy and heartbreaking.

On the other hand, this end felt telegraphed. Helga is a Viking woman of a certain age, but without warrior skills or royal blood, there was no readily apparent end point for her. Helga was strong enough to climb the mountain in winter to bury Angrboda in silence, so it is disappointing to have this return to break her. For a woman so dedicated to the gods’ will to die as a result of irrational desires resulting from an off-screen illness feels cheap. Critical changes to any major character should be on screen, period. Logically, she would not have even been with the army in Wessex; she would have been with the camp as repeatedly demonstrated by past raids. Two strikes there.

On a more dangerous note for a show so bolstered by its female audience, it is further problematic that her death not only pushes Floki into his destiny as a solo explorer, but seals Bjorn’s ascendance to the lead of the Ragnarssons as an adult by removing his final two childhood mentors in one fell swoop. A trope, to use the death of a woman to make men into men. None of this detracts from the work of the actors, which was perfection, but from a plot standpoint, maddening.

The Ragnarssons Divide

Celebrating their win, the Ragnarssons feast on the elevated stage where Ecbert was crowned. Bjorn charges them all with sending over settlers, but his own destiny lies in the Mediterranean. Harald cites “other business,” aka overthrowing Lagertha, but Halfdan, apparently deciding Bjorn isn’t cursed after all, signs on with that venture. Ivar just wants to tear up the countryside, but, with the entire army watching, Sigurd’s usual retorts are too much. Ivar cuts deep by accusing Sigurd of being feminine (see our previous discussion about Viking sexuality), but when Sigurd lashes out one last time, Ivar hurtles his ax across the table into his brother’s chest. Sigurd stumbles towards him, dying just short, the snake in his eye staring into nothing.

From a dramatic angle, it isn’t surprising that one Ragnarsson would die, especially the only one to witness all of Aslaug and Ivar’s sins and to have met Harbard. Aslaug’s abandonment left Sigurd without a definite parent or mentor, which, in a Hirst script, means he’s cannon fodder. Although he conceived of the Great Army, Sigurd was an emotional drifter, taking a shine to Lagertha, Margrethe, really anyone that showed him attention, ergo he is of little significance. Of greater significance, fratricide hardens and darkens Ivar’s soul, pushing him into his final form while he is still quite young.

However, from a historical point of view… AUGH! Sigurd Snake in the Eye is the one to stay and settle in England. He marries Aelle’s daughter, who has already appeared on screen, and is a major figure for many decades, father of legendary Danish king Harthacnut I, grandfather of Halfdan, and great grandfather of the real Harald Finehair. Maybe their current presence makes him redundant, but otherwise this choice is boggling. And for such a massive diversion, it should have been given more than a couple seconds and another abrupt season ending time jump to…

The Coda

A bishop (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) performs funeral rites and gives comfort to the grieving widow, offering a little more, if she’d like. She does like. They have noisy, vigorous sex as a sword gleams, engraved “ANANYZAPATA,” a religious spell against poison. He is Heahmund, warrior priest.

Wrap Up

At the end of its first extended season, Vikings should be congratulated in pulling off the maturation and expansion of its cast and crew. A year ago, I questioned its ability to allow the characters to grow old and die, but Travis Fimmel and Linus Roache pulled it off with aplomb. Moe Dunford grew from a bratty prince to a fully-deserving king. Katheryn Winnick made easy work of the transition from background ex to queen of Kattegat while never letting Lagertha’s warrior edge dull. The Ragnarssons settled into their roles and hierarchy. Kattegat armored itself while Wessex burned down. Hundreds of extras set sail on real boats, and the costumers turned out their best work yet. Visually, Vikings continues to dazzle and its uber-realistic combat expanded to “Battle of the Bastards”-scale with style and brutality.

But those side stories… This is where fans question the most. Not unlike the recent season of Game of Thrones, this season has periodically shown its bones of known historical events, people, and archaeological finds, with Hirst filling in details that don’t always work. The highlights are certainly high, but the emotions and drama propelling us from point to point have at times felt contrived, even infuriating, when they don’t add up. Astrid, for example: what did her story accomplish? Tanaruz. Margrethe. Yidu. Little Siggy. All female, all stories that deserved more plot justification. One hopes that as Season 5 films, course corrections have been made, because, without Ragnar’s magnetism to hold it together, Vikings needs to tighten up on the frivolities and make a conscious effort to keep its dramatic plots relevant. It would also be perfectly fine if Hirst allowed the season to end on a meditative note, allowing us to absorb the trauma just experienced, rather than a jarring jump to the future.

For more of ProFan Sarah’s S4 Vikings reviews, click here.