Lore/Story Ragnar, the Hero

I began working on this two months ago, but I stopped work on it for like a month and a half. I just decided to finish it up recently, so here it is:

Spoiler: Link to a Google Doc, since it's rather long for a forum post

Code:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/160OhChGzGQd4frkt9Fcw_GQgBPpOveV9dS8-wR26rII/edit?usp=sharing

Ragnar, the Hero


It was night. It was a quiet, eerie night, one where even the crickets refused to chirp. Only occasionally did the sound of slow, tentative footsteps break the silence. Perhaps a cough here and there, a muted whisper inaudible. It was night, but the hollow, voiceless wind came not alone. Over the undulating hills of grass, it approached, slowly but steadily.

The townsfolk conversed among themselves. Knives and hatchets hung heavily at their waists; they had no swords, for their meager harvests could not earn any more than what was required for subsistence, though sometimes perhaps they could afford a few candles to light their homes in the darkness; and very rarely, new clothes and the tools with which they tilled the earth, split logs, and gutted the wild fish and fowl they were able to catch. The few hunting bows they possessed—only strong enough to take down doves and rabbits—were nocked with arrows, ready to be released at any moment. A suppressed whisper warned of the coming danger. “It’s them—it’s the undead horde.”

A low, raspy sigh crossed the plains, and suddenly, it felt to the townspeople as if the night had become several times colder. Then, ragged footsteps. First that of one, then two, and eventually at least a hundred. Although they were not silent, their uneven steps rustled through the grass with an ominous lack of noise.

Arrows flew from behind the makeshift barricades of the village. Only five or so hit their mark, but the undead continued to move forward. Gaining momentum, they limped ever quicker, unhindered by the thin arrows lodged in their rotting torsos. The horde moved faster and faster, at a pace that one would not have expected of a battalion of reanimated corpses. Again the increasingly frightened inhabitants of the village fired their arrows, but their frail weapons made no impact on the corrupted horde, which rapidly gained ground, coming closer to their target every second. Soon, the village would be overrun.

Then suddenly, in that noisy yet still seemingly quiet and eerie night, the gallop of a horse was heard. It made its way over the hills, and from atop the horse, three heavy arrows were dispatched in quick succession. The arrows glimmered under the starlight, and with perfect precision, they lodged themselves into the undead. One after another, the corrupted soldiers fell to the flawless marksmanship of the cloaked rider.

As he neared the horde, the sun broke out from above the eastern mountains. Like a halo, the early sunlight radiated outwards from behind the silhouette of the rider.

The rider sped towards the side of the horde. Switching to his sword and shield, he cut down several of the undead warriors with graceful ease. Then, leaping off of his steed, he swept through the corrupted legion, slicing through all that stood in his way. With a fearsome, passionate fury, he dispatched each and every of the undead. Not even those with armor could withstand his blows, and they likewise fell to the ground, fully dead once again.

From behind him, an undead archer shot at him a series of arrows. In those moments the townspeople’s hearts leaped into their throats, but their worry was in vain, and as if he had had eyes in the back of his head, the swordsman spun around to block the arrows with his shield. Charging towards his assailant, he quickly dealt several crushing blows to the undead archer.

He was a storm of destruction. It was as if he was born to carry the sword; his every move struck wonder into the hearts of the onlookers with its elegance. He was a god of war, an avatar of the blade. And finally, when the dust settled, the warrior stood triumphant over a mound of the fallen undead.

The swordsman lifted his sword into the air. “I am your hero!” he bellowed. “I have felled each and every undead warrior that has threatened your safety, and I have defeated the undead horde!”

The townspeople ran out from behind their spiked wooden barriers, and gathered to look on at their savior. They listened to his speech with amazement, and revered his every word. Then, a voice said over the murmurs of the crowd,

“What is your name, great hero?”

The swordsman looked towards the one who had spoken. With a beaming smile and fire in his eyes, he said, “I am Ragnar. Remember my name well, for I am the hero of this province!”


* * *


Word of this hero spread through every town. Soon, every person in the province knew his name. Bards sung of him, recounting the tales of his victories. They sang his name with great passion, and whenever his name was mentioned, the whole room would go silent for a few moments, then erupt in cheerful chatter. “Ragnar! Ragnar! Ragnar!” they chanted. “Hero of the province, savior of Wynn!” they would say. He was the talk of Detlas, and even the kings of the city-forts Ragni and Troms knew his name. Some said that he was the successor of Bob, and some said that he was even greater. Simply put, everyone loved him.


* * *


Ragnar walked into the Rusty Recruit. As he made his way inside, he announced his entrance with bravado, “It is I, Ragnar!” Upon hearing his words, every person in the tavern turned their heads around to see him for themselves. With a room of eyes watching him with reverence, Ragnar walked down to the bar counter and made his order. Resting his elbow on the counter, he said, “Two glasses of your best brew.” Giving a quick response of acknowledgement and nodding eagerly, the bartender hurriedly brought out two sparkling glasses and filled them to the brim with rum, then placed the two glasses onto the counter. Ragnar gave a friendly smile to the bartender.

He pushed one glass across the counter to the person sitting to his right. ”Here, my gift to you,” said Ragnar warmly. With a surprised expression, the person accepted the rum. Then, lifting his drink, Ragnar voiced a “Cheers” and clinked glasses with the person. After taking a sip, he said to the room with spirit, “To me!” Following suit, everyone lifted up their glasses and shouted, “To Ragnar, the hero of Wynn!”

Swiveling around, Ragnar turned to face the man to his left. “Fisherman, are you?” he asked. The man nodded in agreement. With a quick handshake and a beam, Ragnar then whispered, “You’re paying for my drinks, thanks.” After taking a swig, he once again bellowed, “To me!”

Eventually, the bustling energy of the room simmered down into an energetic chatter. It made his heart surge with pride, hearing words from discussions of his heroic deeds filtering through the air, and seeing the occasional glances toward his person, which he met with twinkling eyes. However, the intensity of the voices picked up once again as a new person walked into the tavern. Draped over their shoulders was a cloak made from a thick hide, and from under their outer garments, plates of heavy armor rattled against each other. A helmet framed with dark obsidian glittered in the light of day. A wave of murmurs washed through the tavern-goers.

From a corner of the room, an old Ragni soldier spoke out. “Why, it’s one of the newer recruits from Fruma!” he exclaimed. “They’re a rather new figure in the scene. Ya might not have heard of ‘em before, but they’ve done a lot to help people across the province. They’ve been travellin’ and dealin’ with threats and dangers in all four corners of Wynn. Maltic, Nemract, Nesaak- you name it, they’ve been there, and helpin’ out the locals!” The sound of applause filled the room as the old soldier continued to say, “Let’s give it up for ‘em, a hero in the makin’!”

Ragnar eyed this new person- a hero in the making, or so they were said to be. Glancing around, Ragnar surveyed the expressions of those in the tavern. He then cleared his throat and spoke in the direction of the newcomer. “You must be one of the aspiring warriors who seek to become as great as I am!” he said, nonchalantly.

No response was elicited from the stranger. Instead, they simply walked to the counter, waved to the bartender and gestured for a drink, then walked back to a corner of the room with their bottle of Nemract whiskey. Not even so much as a sign of acknowledgement of Ragnar’s words was made. Without a word, they sat there, quietly taking swigs of their drink. “Eheh, don’t you worry, Ragnar. That’s just how they normally are. Don’t think too much of it,” said the old Ragni soldier. But Ragnar simply could not let such an act of defiance slide. Standing up, Ragnar addressed the cloaked warrior in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

“It’s not very polite of you to not say hello, eh?” said Ragnar in a warning tone. Who was this person, who dared defy him? Ragnar scowled. He then continued to say, “You think you’re special? Well, you’re not. You’ll never be a hero like me, I’ll tell you.” The room then fell silent.

The mysterious soldier stood up. They walked down to the counter, by where Ragnar was standing. He tensed up, waiting for their reaction. Slowly, the newcomer turned to face Ragnar, and gave him a quiet apology and a firm nod. Then, placing three emeralds on the counter’s surface and giving a brief word of thanks to the bartender, they began to walk away to leave. As they passed through the door though, Ragnar said darkly, “You. Detlas square, tomorrow at sunrise. Prepare your weapons.” Ragnar turned away. “Let’s see who’s the true hero.” Uttering those final words, Ragnar gulped down the last of his mead. “Bartender. Get me another two glasses.” The fisherman to Ragnar’s left could only watch on in abject horror.


* * *


Grooks pecked at the grass between the cobblestones. They flapped their flightless wings and clucked intermittently, oblivious to the bustling noise of passing wagons and street peddlers advertising their wares. People hurried along the streets of Detlas, coming and going, coming and going. It was not yet day, but vendors were already setting up their booths in preparation for the coming morning. But today’s hustle and bustle was yet livelier than usual; word of the brawl between two warriors said to be taking place at sunrise had spread throughout the city, and none could escape hearing about it. Some were critical of such a battle in the middle of the city; some were highly interested in it. Some claimed to be the former while succumbing to being the latter. Curiosity was in the mind of every individual, and each person waited for the big event to happen. And then the sun began to rise.

First came Ragnar. He strode down the road, swiftly gliding across the cobblestones with grace. Under his cowl hung low over his face, Ragnar stared ahead, his face still and his eyes boiling with something dark. On his waist hung his sword, its gem-encrusted pommel peeking out from inside of his cloak. Within the hilt’s ruby, deep crimson hues swirled like the churning sea. Ragnar’s oaken shield was slung over onto his back. As he neared the center of the city, he lifted his arms towards the sky. Applause from the crowd that had been gathering along the sides of the square erupted forth. “I am here!” Ragnar cried, his voice reverberating through the plaza. “I am here, to prove to you that I am your champion, as I have before!” he said in a thunderous voice that rumbled throughout the crowds of enthusiastic onlookers.

“Ragnar! Ragnar! Ragnar!” chanted the sea of people. “Ragnar!” they yelled. Their excitement grew with each reiteration of his name, building in intensity every second. He gave an ominous smile as he basked in his pride. “I am here; I am your hero!” Ragnar shouted with an invigorating energy. Again and again he said this phrase with ever more conviction. Then, he paused, and boomed, “I am the hero of the province and the savior of Wynn!”

As the crowd’s words of idolatry rang out, the new soldier passed through the gates of Detlas. As they continued forward, the people on the streets moved to make a path before them, like two halves of a parting sea. And thus they stood at the edge of the square, across from Ragnar. “Come at me!” he bellowed. “Let the people of Wynn see who is their true hero!” he roared, as the crowd cheered at his words. “Come at me! Come at me! With blade and staff, prove yourself. Come at me!”

But the soldier refused. They spoke of some lack of necessity. Something about pride- Ragnar heard nothing but nonsense; the words of a fool. Then, the soldier began to walk away, with no signs of intending to go on the offensive.

Ragnar could not accept this. It was a gesture of disrespect, an act of subversion, and a threat to his authority. It was an insult to his very person. They challenge him once. And they challenge him again, refusing to participate in an honorable duel. What nerve they had, daring to defy him! What cowardice they had, running from battle!

And so Ragnar leapt forward, towards the soldier who so violently attacked Ragnar’s virtuous behavior. For that, they would pay. With great force, his gleaming sword travelled downwards towards the back of the soldier.

The blade was met with thin air. With a rustling of the cloak, the soldier dodged the blow with incomparable precision. Like a flash of light, they darted to the side, and drew their weapon. From under their billowing cloak, a relik glowed with earthen magicks. An ancient power hung over the weapon. They were a wielder of shamanic magicks, so it seemed; something nearly unheard of among the peoples of Wynn who hailed from Fruma. And then with great swiftness, that relik struck the ground before the soldier. Rapidly, a shockwave rippled through the earth, its force magnitudes greater than what one might have expected of one such wooden weapon. The cobblestones of the square shook in place as the earth rumbled.

Ragnar was quick to react, however. Effortlessly, he dived through the air, springing over the shockwave. While the shaman was recovering from transferring their mana into energy, Ragnar came rushing towards his opponent. Before they could react, he slammed his shield into their torso and sent them rolling across the street.

“Rise!” said Ragnar. “Fight me!”

The soldier would not. No, they said. No, they would not fight. Allow them to leave, they demanded. But Ragnar refused to so easily let them go.

Shakily, the shaman pushed themself up. Before they could get to their feet, Ragnar struck them again, with the hilt of his sword. “Rise! Are you a coward, false hero? Rise, and fight me!” And after a few moments, they stood on their feet to face Ragnar. No later than they did, Ragnar once again struck them, and they stumbled across the cobblestones.

Ragnar spread his arms towards the crowd in triumph. “I am your hero!” he declared. “I, Ragnar, am the true hero of Wynn!” Applause erupted from all sides. The masses cried his name, cheering with unparalleled enthusiasm. Again and again, they chanted the name of their hero. It was an unending crescendo, growing ever louder with no signs of stopping. With “I am your hero!”

That was what was supposed to happen. But instead of thunderous ovation, only intermittent shuffling was heard in the plaza. All around him, city dwellers stared in silence. Eyes wide, some pale, they stood there, frozen. Why weren’t they clapping? Why weren’t they cheering? Where was the applause for his display of prowess and the defeat of a villain? His victory was there. What could possibly have been stopping them? Ragnar proclaimed his triumph. Could it have been that they did not realize that he had won? He lifted his sword into the air. “I am your hero!” he bellowed. “I have beaten the boastful recruit that has threatened the peace of the city, and I have ensured they will never do so again!” But it was to no avail.

A scuffling was heard by Ragnar from behind him. The soldier rose to their feet, and began to walk away from the square. Perhaps it was that the soldier was still standing, Ragnar thought. So, he began to stride towards them. “Do you run from me, coward?” he taunted.

Watching Ragnar move towards him, the shaman began to mutter an incantation. As they chanted the magical spell, several cobblestones from the street were levitated into the air and began to swirl around the soldier like a vortex. They were no match for Ragnar, though. Confidently, Ragnar hoisted his shield, to deflect whatever the soldier sent towards him. With a flick of their relik, one of the stones was flung towards Ragnar as magic propelled it through the air.

The stone collided with Ragnar’s shield at an incredible speed. He angled his shield so as to have the projectile simply glance off it, but the blunt force of the hurtling cobblestone was simply too much for it to handle regardless of Ragnar’s amount of skill and technical prowess. Unable to withstand the force of the impact, Ragnar’s shield splintered and was torn from his arm. His bracer and the remnants of his shield jostled against his chestplate, thrusting his shoulder back. Reeling, he stumbled backwards, trying to regain his balance.

Now without his shield, Ragnar made a defensive stance. But he did not need to, for the stones clattered to the ground, and there they lay in their original spots once again, unmoving. No cobblestone flew through the air, and no move was made against Ragnar. Turning around was all the soldier had done. What was the point? The battle was meaningless, fueled by naught but one man’s arrogance, said the soldier. Ragnar scoffed. It was the talk of the self-righteous. How could they say such a thing with such conviction, when they were the one who was so arrogant as to challenge Ragnar’s rightful title as hero?

He stepped forward, in an attempt to charge at the shaman again and to prevent them from leaving. He did not make it far, however, before a searing pain in his chest halted him in his tracks. Ragnar winced as lightning ran through his fractured ribs. Every excruciating step made him grimace. As the soldier made it to their horse outside of the city walls, Ragnar stopped in his tracks, finally giving up pursuit. Quickly, they sped down the path, leaving nothing but dust.

Turning around, Ragnar scanned the crowd of people who had been watching his battle with the soldier. The people shuffled away, and the crowd began to disperse. “I am your hero,” Ragnar tried to say, but the sharp pain in his chest made it come out as nothing more than a wheeze.


* * *


The gallop of a horse was heard, and the sun broke out from above the eastern mountains. Like a halo, the early sunlight radiated outwards from behind the silhouette of the rider. But in their eyes, he was no saint.

Sitting atop his steed, Ragnar rode into town. The cobblestones under the hooves of his horse went clip clop, and he looked down upon the townspeople as he passed through the street. Looking down on them, as he always did. But no longer did they look up to him. Passing through the town, he rode past fishermen and merchants and whoever there might have been, and on that road not a single person looked at him for any more than a few seconds. Their gazes were brief, but their meanings were deep, stabbing. No more would they look up to him, and no more they did.

Ragnar met the gaze of a farmer selling his surplus goods behind a stall, currently in the middle of straightening the sign on his stand. Flashing a smile, Ragnar nodded towards the man. “Good day to you, sir,” he said with a warm charisma. Rather than answering him, the farmer coldly stared at him instead and then returned to fixing up the sign. Seeing that his words elicited no response, Ragnar gave a slight, perhaps a bit forced chuckle and kept on moving down the road.

He made it a small distance away before he heard some hushed chatter coming from the direction of the farmer. “So much for a hero. Did ya hear about what he did over in Detlas?” Ragnar heard the farmer’s every word, and every word stung. Out of all that he saw, what hurt the most was that he never could comprehend why they had turned on him. In what way had he wronged them? Oh, how cruel was the world, how unjust was the judgement of fate!

And so he passed through the town without being given a single hello. He was once the center of attention, and now not even one person chooses to pay him any mind at all?

After an hour, Ragnar made it to Detlas. Grooks pecked at the grass between the cobblestones. People hurried along the streets of Detlas, coming and going, coming and going. Coming and going they all were, but not one of them acknowledged Ragnar’s appearance. It was only the grooks that at any point ever looked up at Ragnar for more than a few seconds; but they were much more interested in the bugs in the streets, and quickly went back to scavenging. The cobblestones under the hooves of his horse went clip clop, clip clop, and it was the thing most similar to conversation that Ragnar had had.

He dismounted some distance away from the plaza and tethered his horse. Making his way through the crowded city, he then arrived at the Rusty Recruit. With a whoosh, the saloon doors swung open. “It is I, Ragnar!” he announced with a booming voice. Some turned to take a look at him. But most who did only shook their heads in disapproval.

He sat down beside another tavern-goer. “Two glasses!” he declared. And so two glasses of whiskey were served to him by the bartender. Grasping the first glass in his left hand and the second in his other, Ragnar turned to the man beside him. “Here, my gift to you,” he said with a brilliant smile.

But that man had but a few moments ago left his seat, and made for the exit. Ragnar’s smile still remained on his face, but within his heart he felt a tinge of something else. Then swiveling to the other direction, Ragnar offered up the second glass to a different person. “Hey, a treat from me! Me, Ragnar!” He enthusiastically extended his hand with the glass towards the other man, putting on a display of generosity.

The man shook his head and declined Ragnar’s offer. “No, thank you. I’m just here for the sake of being here,” he responded.

Thus Ragnar sat there, a glass in each hand. Setting them down on the table, he gestured toward people around the tavern, but not a single one of them minded his waving. There he was, the hero of the province and the savior of Wynn, and no one showed him any respect? He was supposed to be admired, to be venerated by the whistling masses, shouting his name with unmatched passion. He was their hero! He was Ragnar, their hero!

A pensive Ragnar lifted his glass and took a gulp of his whiskey. It was dark and bitter, with a pungent odor that was harsh on his nose. As he downed it, it unsettled his stomach. Was victory supposed to taste this way? Ragnar asked himself this. He knew the answer, though. He had tasted sweet victory before, and this was not it.

“Hey, ya gonna pay for that or not?” demanded the bartender. Ragnar sobered up and set down his glass. He looked left and right. The other man had left as well some time ago. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when his mind came up dry.

Ragnar rummaged through his pockets, but they were empty save for a few pieces of paper. He looked up at the bartender, but he still could not think of anything to say. The bartender fumed, and started rattling off an angry speech. “Ya think you can just come in here and drink for free? I ain’t got time for people like ya! Hero this, hero that; surely if yer such a hero, you’d have the virtue of payin’ for yer own stuff! Eh?” A dumbstruck Ragnar stared back.

From the side of the tavern, a farmer chimed in. “Yeah! Last time you came round my fields, ya knocked my shed over and trampled all over my crops in one of yer stunts! I can deal with one zombie or two, thanks! And without making a mess of my farm, too!” Then, successively, other tavern-goers voiced their frustrations.

Seeing as Ragnar had not responded, the bartender spoke up again. “Well, if ya ain’t gonna pay, then start makin’ yer way outta here! Get out!”

And so Ragnar was kicked out of the Rusty Recruit, and there he stood on the streets, the aftertaste of the whiskey still bitter in his mouth. What happened to his fame and status?


* * *


The horse walked down the dirt path of the Emerald Trail, and with every step a plume of dust shot up into the air, where it was suspended and swirled like a warm current meeting a cold current in the ocean. The skies were still, cloudless, and without wind. Not a single leaf nor blade of grass rustled, as the air remained silent, unmoving. It was a hot, dry day, and the rays of the sun glared down upon the surface of the earth without mercy. The burning sun hung in the sky like a ball of flame, and it challenged all to look up at its blinding light.

But then, as he neared the entrance to the Nivla Woods, the air began to stir. Gradually, the wind began to pick up speed. The trees began to dance in the breeze, first slowly, then with an increasing frenzy. The once calm sea of grass began to toss back and forth, and waves swept across the plains. The wind whistled, as if cheering the stormy ocean that was the land on. Ever more hurriedly, the wind blew, faster and faster.

With the wind, dust flew too. A gyrating cloud of dust rose upwards, obscuring the path. The horse paused. As the opaque screen of dust obscured the way, the rider stopped to wait for the dust to clear before going on.

Ragnar coughed as wandering specks of dust came near his face. Under the scorching sun, he grumbled, irritated. The dry heat was maddening.

As the wind died down, the drifting particles settled, and the road became clear again. And then there they were, that despicable soldier, walking from out of the woods. There they were! How arrogant, how full of hubris they were, to walk tall and proud? So insulting were their mannerisms, Ragnar thought, as the stifling heat boiled his blood. And so every little action, every movement was interpreted by Ragnar’s mind now devoid of reason and rationality as a threat born from their intolerable insolence.

There they were, walking towards him as they traveled down the path on their way towards Ragni. Ragnar continued riding horse and posed an air of disinterest, refusing to pay the shaman any mind. But they would not leave him alone, instead choosing to hurl taunts and jeers at him. Good afternoon, they said. So full of audacity they were so that they may say such a thing! Each of those two words was poison; a pinch of salt rubbed in a wound, a slap to the face.

The soft thuds of his horse’s hooves on the trail laughed at him and mocked him, barely hiding their laughter. The rustle of the trees and bush taunted him, harassed him, ridiculed his every move. The forest whispered to him incomprehensibly, the sounds of his surroundings worming into his ear and taking stabs at his pride. The soldier had just passed him a few moments ago, and by that time the noise was unbearable, droning, drilling into his skull. Silence! he wanted to yell to the woods around him. The noise, stop it, stop it, stop it!


Thus sanity breaks.


Ragnar jumps down from his steed. Dust swirls at his feet. Everything is slow, as if the world had been submerged in water. Time travels sluggishly, or at least the perception of it does.

A sword is unsheathed. Metal scrapes on metal, crying out its deathly warning.

One step, then another. Three steps, four steps, five steps. Left, right, one foot after the other. Slowly, like a wolf stalking its prey. The forest shudders at every step.

Humming, metal hums. Ready to taste blood. Ready for retribution.

Mail clinks. The heavy armor chimes delicately. Orderly chain links produce a beautiful cacophony of sound.

Six, seven, eight. Forwards he walks, without hesitation. Propelled by the burning flame within his mind, so intense, never flickering.

Ragnar, hero of Wynn, makes his way towards his target. Valiantly, with pride and courage he seeks to defeat the wicked villain.

Boots thud on the earth, like a drum at a grave tempo. Plates of steel rattle as one foot lands in front of the other.

One foot after the other, one foot after the other. Nine. Nine steps so far, and not many more to go. Nine, almost ten, almost there.

Traces of wind sigh devoid of emotion. Hollow, rasping breaths, ragged, starving. Hungry for the scent of blood, hungry for the act of vengeance soon to come.

He hoists his sword over his shoulder, in preparation to swing it. Faster he swings his legs, beginning to break out into a run.

Ten.


Ragnar’s sword swung with blazing speed. He was known across the entire province as the greatest warrior of his time, and he had the prowess to prove it. The sword was his passion, his fury. With unparalleled dexterity, he adeptly weaved through the air as his gleaming blade traveled towards its target.

Before he could land his blow, the soldier spun around, and a whirlwind of dust followed, spiraling around them. A few verses of a foreign magic were chanted by the soldier, and a pillar of earth rose up before them. Like an arrow, it rocketed upwards, intercepting the steel blade.

But Ragnar expected such a thing would happen, as he was a swordsman who had years of experience and exhibited a mastery like that of no other. With his shield in his opposite hand, he thrusted it forwards, breaking through the wall of earth and causing it to crumble as pebbles and chunks of dirt fell to the ground. Not wasting a single moment, he then swung again as he closed the distance between himself and his opponent. Unable to summon a barrier up from the ground in time to interrupt the path of the sword, the shaman instead muttered a defensive spell and drew their cloak up over themselves.

It is said that the hide of a Touroto is impenetrable by non-magical means, and this statement held true in the moment of impact. Together, with the additional power of the spell, the cloak was able to withstand the hit.

Still, the force of the blow caused them to stumble backwards as they tried to regain their footing. The hero of Wynn laughed. “Is that all you have to show for yourself?” he taunted.

The trail shook as the soldier muttered another incantation under their breath. The very earth trembled as a stone totem covered in rough carvings erupted from in front of them. From within it, an overwhelming aura emanated outwards. Cryptic runes etched along its sides shifted and changed shape, morphing from one form to another in a blink of the eye, ever so slowly. It was a stone totem, but nothing on it was set in stone; each glyph was moving, never static, or perhaps just creating an illusion of it.

The runes began to shimmer, pulsating with an earthy glow. A dusty wind glided past the totem, and as if it had absorbed the glowing symbols it began to whisper, rasping across stone and dust.

Scoffing as an aura of magic unfurled from within the cold depths of the many facets of the totem, Ragnar said, sneering, “A spectacular lightshow you have here. Got anything else? Or is this it; no fire to go with the lightning?” He slid counterclockwise about the totem, and across from him, the soldier too circled. Each waited for the other’s move, for the other to act. The totem’s radiating aura was not all that hung in the air; something else, more of the mind lingered with the dust, tense as a string pulled taut, but heavier yet than whatever arcane energies there were woven among the particles of dirt.

It caused muscle to grow tense and blood to rush with an ever quicker pace, as did the two themselves. Ragnar’s blood burned under the scorching rays of the red sun. As if excited, the air jittered, almost humming.

Slicing through the stiff atmosphere, Ragnar bounded towards the soldier. Letting loose a battle cry, he leapt through the rising curtain of dust, sword held high. Steel met earth, and a gray plume burst outwards from the earthen wall that had been summoned within that split second. Ragnar advanced forwards past the pillar of dirt, and his opponent retreated backwards.

The ground rippled as if it were a puddle that had been disturbed. Waves of earth sped towards Ragnar, each successive wave higher than the one before it.

Readying himself, Ragnar took a moment to inhale deeply. Then, in the next moment, he sprinted towards the waves, springing onto the first, then second, and so on. As he reached the final peak, he leapt downwards, hands clasped tight around the hilt of his sword. Under the sunlight, the tip of the blade shone like a fire as it reflected the sun’s rays in a dazzling display. It swung downwards, picking up momentum.

The shaman dodged to the side, and Ragnar slammed his blade into the ground where the soldier once stood. Unfazed from the drop, he swung again, and with even greater force. He smashed through pillars of earth one after another as they erupted from the ground on his path, each blow becoming stronger and more frenzied.

Why were they so stubborn? Couldn’t they just give up and accept their defeat? One column of earth after another, unending, wearing out the mind and spirit. It was a fog within his head, so blurry yet so sharp, nearly splitting his mind in two, threatening to release a torrent of frothing rage.

Faster and faster he hacked at the earth summoned to impede his forward movement. And so faster and faster he stepped, faster than the shaman could manipulate the earth. Then the last, sole pillar crumbled to the ground as dust, and there face to face with Ragnar stood the exhausted shaman, worn out and drained of energy.

Ragnar slashed at the shaman. Steel met wood as they hoisted their relik up before the descending blade. With a whoosh and a dull thud the sword lodged itself into the side of the relik. He pressed forwards, leaning his weight into the hilt of his sword, forcing the shaman to backpedal and slide across the dusty path.

An underhanded move. Ragnar’s boot collided with the torso of the soldier as he thrusted his leg forwards in a kick. Flying backwards, the shaman skidded across the pebble-strewn dirt. A crooked relik, now devoid of any magic it may have once held, clattered to the ground. Along with it, the totem that had risen from the ground crumbled into dust, returning to the earth from which it came.

“Powerless, aren’t you?” sneered Ragnar. So pitiful was the usurper of his righteous authority. They coughed and hacked, dust filling their lungs with each ragged breath. “Power, that is rightfully mine. I am your hero, your champion, your protector. I am the hero of Wynn; I am Ragnar, the true hero. And yet you dare challenge me?” Ragnar scoffed. “Look at yourself. So incapable, lacking the means to defend yourself from your assailant.”

“That is why, disruptor of the peace, you, like all the other peasants, need me. Your woes beckon my presence. Your cries are answered by me.” He spat into the soil. “The monster you fear I slay. Be it highwayman or bandit or whoever may threaten your safe travels, I will serve justice to them. I am your hero, and for my virtuous deeds I deserve your every respect.”

For a few moments the earth rumbled, but Ragnar did not notice, could not notice.

“Yet you shun my outstretched hand, refuse my kindness. No, you stain my good name! Trickery, deceit, you whisper snake-tongued lies, dripping poison into the ears of the public!”

Ragnar strodeforward one step at a time, slowly, with dust swirling at his heels. But something else too whisked dust into the air. A strange, mysterious gust of wind traveled along the surface of the ground.

“And despite this, I have shown you my every mercy, displayed my benevolence. But my patience is not infinite. No, I will bring justice upon you, villain, criminal!”

And then the earth beneath him began to fracture, and from the shifting soil unfurled thick clouds of dust. A moment later, he was a meter above the surface of the ground. The earth rapidly sped to meet him again, but before he landed on solid ground a massive earthen fist rocketed up from out of the disturbed dust and sent him soaring across the undulating, frothing sea of dust. It rained pebbles and loose dirt, battering the dazed Ragnar.

From the air, dust and pebbles condensed together to form a sword held together by magic. Thus the battle resumed.

With great effort, the shaman swung the heavy stone blade upwards, using their momentum to propel it forwards; and then stone blade met steel blade as Ragnar’s sword flew to intercept that earthen sword. His steel cried out in protest as it collided with the ungiving rock, ringing out shrill, the sound oscillating and wavering in the air.

Dust muffled the clang of the swords, as pebbles and gravel crunched and ground against each other. But as quickly as the sword had deformed, it once again took the form of a weapon, as the chains of the arcane bound them together.

The rocky sword cut through the air again, trailing dust and wispy strands of magic. Again and again, it met the cold metal of the gleaming blade, unnervingly cool in the inferno of the battle. For Ragnar never lost his cool, never his temper; he stood still as a rock, fastened to the image of heroism and bravery even as the swirling river around him buffeted him, seeking to lift him off his feet. He was a well-tempered blade, the culmination of determination and skill, the culmination of Wynn’s hopes and dreams.

The rocky sword cut through the air again, and again and again. Swift slashes became increasingly sluggish, and Ragnar’s vision wavered as he stood across from his opponent. He coughed on the film of dust that hovered before him. Sweat dripped slowly down his forehead, then moistened the dry, scorched earth.

The steel of his sword screeched as he hacked at his opponent, only to be blocked by the sword of gravel. “Is this all you have?” bellowed Ragnar, practically screamed. With something like second wind, he picked up the speed of his blows. More rapidly than ever before did he swing his weapon. But while he may have dealt blow after blow with increasing speed, the strength of each blow continually diminished. Faster, faster, but more and more sloppy and weak.

The shaman too felt the effects of exhaustion, and the heat did not help. Under the sun the two fought as if underwater, as the exchange grew more forced and stiff, and less and less fluid. Expelling air from his lungs as he cried his worn-out battle cry, Ragnar cut, slashed, jabbed, as the soldier did, but neither seemed to be gaining the upper hand. “Come at me! Come at me, scoundrel!” grated Ragnar’s voice. “Is this, this—all that you have to show for yourself? Fight me!”

For what seemed like forever, the two fought, locked in vicious battle. But Ragnar braved on, for he was the true hero. It was a battle between hero and villain; it was a battle between good and evil, and good will always triumph. So Ragnar braved on.



He will not give up. Ragnar is a hero, the hero, and heroes do not give up. He shall persist, persevere, push forward and bring down this wicked foe.

One, two, three, four five. A step, then another. He is a lion, facing his enemy with valor to match the brilliance of his golden mane. Six, seven, eight, stepping forward, picking up speed, moving in the direction of his target he has so locked his sights on. Unyielding, unwilling to stop. Nine, ten. He lifts his sword skyward, and brings it down as he does justice. Ragnar brings down the villain so corrupted of heart.

For Ragnar always brings down whatever obstacles he may face. Doesn’t he?

But then the earth speeds towards him. That underhanded miscreant! A sly move, taking advantage of his vulnerability. Not abiding by the rules of the unwritten book, the unspoken word. Breaking the sacred rules of the duel, so treacherous!

That crooked spell, that summoning of earth, towards his person in a great mass so that he may not be able to evade it. So wide, all-consuming...

Face-first, he falls to the ground, as his body rushes down to meet the earth. His legs give way, the strength vanishes from his arms, and he topples over like a man in a drunken stupor. Ragnar lies prone, staring at the earth before his eyes as he mutters angry curses. His arms refuse to push himself up, and he, exhausted, waits for his demise, for that evil being to bring down their weapon and end his life.


Perhaps it was that the hazy fog of fury had muddled his mind, but the fear of dying did not register within his brain. Too preoccupied with his rambling, he lay down on the ground, giving himself up. He might not have won the physical battle, but maybe he could still argue with whatever person lay in front of his eyes.

Did he win the argument, though? He argued and argued with that specter within his mind, but never won, for the argument must have concluded if he were to have won. So he argued, never winning, with that fake image of his opponent. Fake, if it were to have been of that shaman, perhaps; but as a projection of his own mind, it was very realistic. Ragnar versus Ragnar- that was what it was; Ragnar versus Ragnar, and neither of them winning.

Someone, something, an alien something so foreign reached out its hand to Ragnar. He knew it was there, even though he had not looked up. He knew that it had not descended to land the final blow. Because he knew, somewhere deep within him, past all the heroic words and the proud, proud man inside, that that soldier was not so bad at all. Ragnar so wanted to tell himself that he knew all there was to know about that shaman, that he could see through this false mirage the shaman had created with their trickery, but it was a lie so blatant even he, Ragnar, hero of the province, savior of Wynn, could not be blind to its ridiculousness.


The hand reached out to him and so, with a heavy heart, but one that seemed to be growing lighter, he took it.

 

Very good and interesting story about an introvert and extrovert being heros. 8/10

 

very good and interesting story about 2 washing machines going head to head 8/10

 

very good and interesting story about a hash brown fighting a french fry with boiling oil 8/10

 

ragnar 8/10

 

It seems that you have spelled "heroes" wrong.

 

extraordinary and intriguing tale of the greg anomaly and cinfras tourist from llevigar challenging each other in a duel to the point of defamation in troms, 15/20

 

All this time i thought it was heros

 

excellent and thought-provoking prose about a lootrunner fighting the reanimated corpse of Remikas because he sniped their Sky Islands world, 4/5