Storm Of Axes Research Paper

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Storm of Axes Forward the axe flew like lightning through the air, it’s spinning vortex leering at me as it seeks to cull my life. I raise my shield, a thundering THOOM! echoing across the battle as the axe sinks it’s teeth into the bulwark of my defense. I step forward my arm of sixty seven years wielding my broadsword like one would hold a lover’s hand and then the hymn of Asgard fills my soul. The gods accept my victory as they have many times before. My foe falls to my feet, life-less in this realm, but more alive than he ever has been in another. I am Vunrdum, warrior elite to Jarl Tyrnarion and legend for shield and blade. All my life I have fought, I have stood upon the ruins of the Paris wall. I have taken a life from all of the kingdoms…show more content…
I look upon the old warped tree the seer abides in. A rotting hallowed tower said to be as ancient as the stars. I step within the shaman’s domain, pushing back a curtain crafted of string and bones. The rattle reflects as I step forward. “I wish to ask the gods for a quest.” I speak clear and bold. I have seen the seer many times in my day, and the seer before him, and know well how to honor the eyes into the realm of the gods. I know not to waste their time. The seer peers forward, his eyes unseeing of the material around him. It is said that the blind can gaze not unto our world, but the realm of the gods. Their eyes beckon to the golden halls of Valgarde, and the roots and bark of our own. “A quest..” the seer exhumes from his throat like he is releasing a foul fume. The blind seer holds his hands up, waving them about the air as though he is tethering some ethereal rope. A thread from this world to theirs. With the glare of black smiling teeth, I knew I had an answer. “The gods have such a challenge, and they will agree to send you. Far away, to a shadow giant’s realm known as Shadow Crown. Deep in the northern mountains. Go now, Odin shall grant you vision on your…show more content…
I struggle each step, four weeks I have walked, and the cold drenching flood of exhaustion hangs at my heels. The crow urges me on and onwards I go. Sometimes I stumble, and sometimes I fall, and the crow calls again and I raise. I refuse to die like this, I will not fall to the weary. I will not die from the frigid cold. Only by blade will I accept death, and so, I continue. Over mountains I tread, my beard growing long bushy and white, shielding my wrinkled skin from the elements. Bounding over ice-frozen streams with walking stick in hand. Soon, the land loses it’s green, and becomes painted in only black ice and grey stone. The chill of the winter changes in feeling. Not only was my body cold, but this dark land chilled the very essence of my soul. The ice loses it’s reflection and instead shows the bones of the damned. Lost bodies entrapped to frost prisoners of their fate. Their skulls empty of emotion aside from the layers of preserved flesh in the snow. Yet, I continue on. I know well that I may be among these bones soon. Be it either the shadow giant, or one of its beasts. I cross over a frejold of black muck once had been snow. It clasps at my wolf-fur boots as though it desires a great hunger, and with each tearing step forward I grow
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