Post by Aleksander Sveen on Nov 26, 2014 5:47:09 GMT
“We can make it! Keep moving,” The cries of a desperate man echoed throughout the snowy ravine, unaware that his voice had traveled much further than he may have thought.
“Please, let’s rest here,” Another man in tattered clothes – inadequate for the dismal temperature – fell on his hands and knees as if ready to submit to Mother Nature, “It is so cold. We are doomed, friend.”
The look of immediate emergency ran over the face of Timothy Moore, an American who had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the unknown regions of the Scandinavian Mountains. A man who had a large family waiting back at home for him, but he would never see them again. Moore was dressed in what looked like clothes dated back centuries ago, as if he had just time traveled from the past. His own persistence led him to check over his shoulder with every dozen or so steps, perhaps checking to see if he was indeed being followed. White was all he could see.
Stumbling over the treacherous mounds of snow among the hills was Anthony Diaz, an accountant from New York City, in which had come under the same circumstances as poor Tim. This slick professional had made the wrong turn in his attempt to chase some hot tail, and ended up in the fight of his life. He too wore similar clothes, tattered and worn from his daring escape from the same morning. The two men looked to be on the wrong side of something serious, and were reassured of their status by the distant echo of horses running at full speed.
With a worrisome look, Tim rested briefly as if he had wished his situation weren’t in fact so dire. There was a distant and cold look in his eyes, which told the tale of utter horror on the horizon. Diaz shot a glance in the direction their own footprints in the snow had come from. They had left tracks, and it appeared there was nothing they could do to get around the inevitable. Like mice caught in a cage – one without walls – the two men looked at each other, knowing their only chance was to flee.
“Get up! Our only chance is to keep moving,” tugging at the arm of Tim; the accountant seemed to have a gut feeling they were close to being free again, “I can’t go back there!”
However, it was too late.
Both men heard the overwhelming sound of a distant horn echoing throughout the mountain ravine. It was the call of blood, of certain death.
The thunderous strides of what would make out to be a pack of horses mushed through the snowy drifts, as if they had done this numerous times before, yet the horses themselves weren’t what to fear. Upon each brilliant stallion was a stalwart looking warrior, clad in multiple layers of armor that had the appearance of dating back many, many years. Cloaks flowed behind the riders, as they seemed to glide across the hills, following the path of footsteps among the wide white trail.
Timothy Moore seemed to submit to his eventual doom, freezing in place as the sight of his captors grew upon him and his escapee friend. Diaz broke loose and began a sloppy stride through the hillside, navigating his way through a few nearby bushes, and then finally making a sudden beeline towards the dense forest ahead. The roar of sudden death followed briskly, resulting in the stallions blazing past poor Timothy who laid still, as if creating a fetal position snow angel. The men on their fateful steeds ignored the timid man, their predatory gaze locking onto the moving target.
Like a fighter jet in an outnumbered dogfight, Anthony continued his heroic escape, knowing the forest would indeed give him a decent chance of survival. The armored men slowly drifted apart at full speed – almost in perfect synchronization – the unsheathing of large Viking-era swords shown from their hips while in full motion. Making contact with the backside of the accountant was the viciously sharp edge of what seemed like a custom, homemade sword. The Viking-like weapon struck the back of the man with sudden impact that caused the human to fall over into the white unknown of a hillside, rolling multiple times with trickles of crimson blemishing the perfect pigment of the ground.
An audacious and quivering scream of a man was heard throughout the open space, as Anthony Diaz laid upon the snowy hillside on his back, writhing in unimaginable pain from a gaping wound. The lurkers in armor swirled around, as if demons hunting an angel, they had struck hard and wounded the man to what appeared to be a mortal strike of perfect intention. The CPA attempted to roll over and crawl in an attempt to flee, but the sound of metal boots packing down on snow amounted to him gracing the presence of one of three armored devils. The moonlight shined off the treacherous exterior of a finely crafted helmet, only showing the evil eyes of what would appear to be Satan in the eyes of Anthony Diaz.
“Spare me,” Diaz struggled at the feet of one of the men, hugging onto a leg with a soft grasp, “Spare me, my lord!”
As if the accountant knew this warrior, he begged and pleaded with screams of pain from his open wound, leaking the essence of life all over his oddly configured outfit from the past. The other two warriors stood nearby as to watch what appeared to be their leader handle the situation with the upmost evil intentions. A single armor clad boot stepped onto the hand of Anthony Diaz, pummeling it into the earth to create an icy vice. Screams of pain were heard once more among the ravine, knocking snow down from higher parts of the mountain.
“Treason, punishable by death!” One of the surrounding warriors bellowed in an evil voice, announcing the certain doom of a weary Diaz. The armored boot freed the hand of the CPA, but the call for something far worse was already in the midst. Sudden greasy liquid spilled over the head of the escapee, Diaz, and to his shock, he knew his fate as he felt the warm bath poor over him. Without warning, Anthony Diaz was kicked over onto his back by the same boot that had pinned his hand down before. The flare of a single match was all that could be seen among a grim and dark picture.
Flesh caught fire among the unending screams of a soul writhing in a terrible execution. The murder was rather quick, with Anthony Diaz flailing on the ground in complete horror, his screams carrying everywhere among the Scandinavian Mountains. The burning carcass was abandoned with the notion that the man had died an uneasy demise. Smoke poured into the night sky to smear the darkness with bouts of grey, the burning body of Anthony Diaz unmoving among the simmering flames. The armored men quickly marched among the hillside to retrieve the other escapee, leading their stallions behind them.
The wide eyes of a shaken and horrified Timothy Moore sat unnerving on the entire scene that had played out. As quiet as a mouse, Moore dare not move as the armored men drew closer with eyes peering out among the faceplate of blacksmith-crafted helms. The leader stood front and center in front of a devastated and traumatic man – shaking from the insane climate – now wishing he had stayed put instead of listening to the ideas of a now newly deceased man that laid some yards out as a hot skeleton.
“Timothy Moore, you have been found guilty of treason,” The leader spoke with true vengeance that sliced through the air and created an immediate spark of attention, forcing Timothy Moore to snap out of his doomed gaze on his burning friend.
“Lord! I challenge you to a duel to reclaim my honor!” The sound of Timothy Moore’s voice echoed through the ravine with what appeared to be his only way to evade a flaming fate. The warriors stood in their armor, unfazed by the sudden challenge to their leader by what appeared to be a man struggling with malnutrition.
Both eyes remained on the shivering man through the open holes of a helm. The stalwart leader dawned in darkened armor with a flowing cape stepped forward with an obvious interest. Timothy Moore had found the only real way to avoid the punishment of treason, and this armored warrior seemed to eat up the chance for opportunity for the brutality in which combat would bring. In a dramatic pause, the leader clutched the sides of is helm with both hands, removing the iron mask in which he had been hiding behind.
Ominous eyes laid upon his new challenger, as cream white colored skin dawned with the visage of a warrior indeed – black paint scattered across in what seemed to be lacerations – the leader of the True Nordic Brotherhood let his long black hair flow in the upcoming winds of a treacherous mountainside. Snowflakes instantly stuck to the long black strands, but Moore could only focus on the evil stare that followed the uncertain voyage he was about to endure. Aleksander Sveen grimaced at the escapee, but seemingly upheld the honor of a full-fledged challenge to reclaim honor.
“You shall have your chance to earn your spot in our settlement once again, Timothy Moore,” an earth thundering voice of a killer riled up the adrenaline of all men who stood amidst this grim scene. Aleksander’s voice lavished in the thought battle, killing a man, and of course, proving his own honor in the process.
“Challenge accepted!” The roar of Sveen’s shout echoed through the mountainside, creating a stir of wild animals and an otherworldly bass that sucked the motivation right out of Timothy’s own soul. One of the two surrounding armored men chimed in with the toss of a sabre, which landed right next to Moore’s feet with deadly precision.
An awkward attempt at bringing the rather small sword was made by Timothy, seemingly not strong enough to yield such a blade, yet the man heaved it up with all his strength. Another weapon was brought into the fray; the other armored man lending what seemed to be the weapon of choice for Aleksander Sveen, which appeared to be a brute-like mace covering with shiny spikes. The weapon itself appeared to have the size to merely crush a man’s skull with one swing, and Timothy gulped in terror at the sight of such a beautiful tool.
Aleksander Sveen stood completely still, as if daring the unable Moore to make the first move, and so he did. The weak attempt was quickly side stepped by an iron clad Sveen, which brought the heavy swing of the deadly mace around in full heave, colliding with the side of his targets head. The instant spray of red demise showered the nearby snowdrifts with the texture of immediate death. Pieces of skull and brains splattered across the terrain in a soft echo, which triggered an immediate approval of the other two armored men, in which one pulled out a crafted horn from his pouch, letting the bellow of his call echo across the dark skies of the Sandavian Mountains.
The lifeless body of Timothy Moore fell into the snow, creating an icy, temporary grave.
“Bring the bodies with us,” Sveen confirmed his intention to leave zero trace of what was two quick and deadly murders in this unknown location, “We ride back tonight.”
