* RAGNAROK - Chapter 1 - Page 2

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

"So be it, Giant," the miniscule creature spat out, shaking its head. Without another word, it skittered beyond a natural hedge of rock and is gone.

Alone again, Prottignrari set out to find something that would actually fill his appetite. After an hour on foot, he came to a valley--the Valley of Swords.

Sharp glade cut up through a dusty field. Strong edges of grass that were nearly as hard as metal. A crude road had been formed in the pass, winding through Jotunheim to the colder reaches near the Citadel of Utgard.

Movement on the trail caught Protti's cold eye. He carefully moved into position to surmise exactly what it was that had wandered into his native land.

Mortals! Foolish humans who had somehow stumbled into Jotunheim!

And these were no warriors. No proud Vikings or godly servants. Just pitiful travelers from Midagard. Proti looked closer, eager to plan his meal.

Six youthful beings bantered back in forth in an odd tongue. There were four males, draped in odd trappings and two females, likewise arrayed in strangeness. Each of them carried a satchel or bedroll over their shoulder. One of them seemed to be talking into his hand. Two more argued, and a third perused some kind of map.

Fools? A troupe of minstrels and jesters? Protti shook off the confusion. What did it matter? If anything, their taste would simply be more exotic.

Though he missed his precious axe, he would hardly need it in taking his prey.

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

Rousing shouts of support were heard in near unison from the black-panelled speakers. Comrade Vleitnikov's words had once again stirred loyalty in his men.

The control disk was in place, and Targo fell back on the secreted manual he had memorized while in prison. The launch codes, directional coordinates... all the details had been seen to by his programmer. The brilliant technician had simplified everything. Miska--Targo's own son--was taken by an assassin's bullet. In his honor, Red12 would shake the foundations of the country that had so long defied Soviet might.

Targo keyed in the name of his deceased child, and the targeting computer was brought online. Coordinates were fed into the keyboard from a scrap of paper propped inbetween the monitors.

Sirens chirped, boots clanked against metal. Yuri and his men had cleared the launch area. From the shielded dome in which the control center was poised, Vleitnikov watched.

A panel of four red lights flickered amber, and the commander exhaled deeply. A loud whirring noise droned through the tower, but Targo shut it out.

The cause was greater than he himself, or any of the fallen soldiers since the assault began. Not just for Miska... but for a proud Mother Russia.

Targo keyed in the failsafe code, and pressed a green "LAUNCH" button without hesitation. He slumped into the padded seat and waited.

In the field beyond the Cheska facility, steam vents burst open. The circular cover plate rolled back, as the green and gray cone slid into the open air.

In moments, the missle was clear of its earthly bounds, and rocketed outward into the night air. Certainly the Americans would intervene, but Miska had prepared his program for such eventualities.

There was indeed no turning back. Targo sat in silence as he tracked the missle.

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

"I am called Skarn," the Viking replies, seated awkwardly in the tattered Jeep. Clive had completed the introductions while trying to start the dead engine.

"Trouble?" Skarn inquires innocently, rubbing his bruised head from where he struck the metal rail undearneath the Jeep's canvas top.

Clive nodded, and ran around front to inspect the engine. Having a decent amount of mechanical knowledge, he was startled to find no sign of trouble under the hood.

"Your carriage... it bleeds," Skarn offers again, twisting his neck around to look out the passenger side door.

Sure enough, a fluid leak quickly brought Branson to the realization that his fuel was spent. In the distance lie the extra gallon canister, tipped over and emptied into the snow.

"That must have been some bear," Clive offered, bewildered by the assault on his vehicle.

"True," Skarn concurred, "It was no Midgard born beast. I tracked the beast here from the edges of Nidavellir."

"From... where?" Clive was unfamiliar with the Swedish villages in the foothills of Razoredge.

"Nidavellir... home of the dwarves?"

Clive was confused, left speechless for a moment.

"Perhaps we could push this chariot down the hill. The slope to the southeast would surely carry us halfway to the village of men below?"

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

"Scott is too high to read the map," came a stern rebuke.

"Fuck you, Sanders," the map-wielder replied, placing a hand above his eyes to blockout the sunny haze. Scott was a tall, clean-cut kid, a senior on the verge of graudaiton.

The company of six wandering students had unknowingly crossed beyond the border of their home world into the rocky realm of Jotunheim.

"Give me the fucking map, Scott."

Grudingly, Scott handed the useless folds of paper to his companion. The short and rail thin Sanders was easily the least liked of the crew. "Dude," Sanders addressed as he yanked the map away, "My dad did not fly us to Europe so we could pull a Blair Witch."

Meanwhile, the rest of the troupe paused to smoke on the large, flat rocks of the river basin.

"Hiking... it sucks," the brown-haired Brandy offered. "Visting Europe should be about hotels, museums... stuff like that."

The brash Scott nodded, standing up on a small boulder to find a better vantage point. He took a puff of the hand-fashioned smoke and passed it to Branch, the muscle-bound member of the crew that thanklessly carried the largest load.

"You know I don't touch this shit," came Branch's deep voice.

"Whoa," chimed the bronze-skinned Erica, half asleep from the marijuana. "Check out this guy.

In the distance, a large form barrelled towards them. Was it... human? It was freakishly huge... blue skinned... and shouting something indiscernable as it ran towards them.

"Fuck," Sanders and Scott spoke in unison. The map dwindled to the ground, and the pack of hikers gathered themselves in an attempt to flee.

"Randall," the girls screamed.

Sanders took over, "We're getting the fuck outta here!"

From behind a group of evergreens, Randall ran, tugging on his pants zipper.

"What the f...?!"

A large, leaf-riddled plank interrupted Randall, smashing into his lower back and sending him face first into the dirt between the trees.

A feral roar came from the giant. Even as the five other tresspassers scattered, Prottignrari would have no trouble catching and killing them all.

Randall moaned, lying still on the ground. Without hesitation, Protti leapt back onto the crude road, chasing the path to the oafish Branch, striking him with his namesake across the back of the neck. Leaves scattered.

"Motherfucker!" Scott shouted, as he and Sanders turned from their flight and charged the Frost Giant.

The two girls offfered support, pelting rocks at the giant, bouncing off his tough skin like pebbles.

Branch rolled on the ground until on his side. The weight of the large pack held him down. He was badly injured, but equally growing in anger. "Get this shit off me!" he growled to his companions.

Protti gave his prey time to draw closer. Two of the men were down, and the other two seemed to rush to their deaths.

It would prove to be Prottignrari's easiest hunt in years.

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ilya nods in acceptance of Ormstunga's suggestion. The burning sensation in the illusionist's palm remains, a small but definite scar has formed on his gray skin.

Ilya rises, pulling a dusty tome from its place on the bookshelf beside him. He returns to his seat while flipping through worn pages. With an expression of sudden recognition, he smiles.

The book drops heavily on the desktop in front of Ormstunga.

It is open to a black and white ink drawing of a mountain range--the Himalayas. Ilya sits down, drawing a red pen from a drawer underneath the desk.

Though upside-down, he manuevers the instrument to a precise location on the simple map. He crosses lines under the bold title "NEPAL".

"The cave is most certainly protected," Ilya warns. "But the very forces that protect the cave will also be our beacon, pointing to a more exact location..."

He implies that he is fully intent on joining the search, and awaits Ormstunga's next move.

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

The missle glided smoothly into the stratosphere, parting the clouds in its path. Like a noble hawk, it swooped across plain and mountain with undying determination. Soon the projectile made its way out to sea, miles above the icy ocean beneath.

Slowly, the pending attack came to the attention of the United States, as it scurried to launch its countermeasures.

Targo silently monitored the flight from the control center, tapping his fingers on the display. There was indeed a chance that the weapon could fail in its task. Though failure was not a word that Red12 had grown accustomed to using.

All that was left was the waiting. Many nations would surely reply on behalf of the victimized States. Targo and his men were preapred for the eye of the world to be on them.

Unknown to the Soviet rebels, another eye would soon be upon them. A greater force than any mere nation on the planet.

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

Determined to press on, Ajene crawled further along the floor of the school bus towards the driver's seat, into the heart of the blaze. A faint sound is heard, but the dizzied rescuer begins to question what might be a hallucination.

The smoke clears enough for him to take in his immediate surroundings. Brown sack lunches rest under the front seat, slowly being consumed by the fire. Black puffs swirl back into view.

It's too late.

The vehicle erupts in a horrible explosion, metal and glass shards rent free in the force of the blast.

The unprovoked air raid had taken its latest casuality. The sacrifice of the heroic Ajene Fitzgerald would never be forgotten by those he had protected, by the lives of those he had saved.

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Skarn shakes the snow off of himself idly, seemingly amused by the near-death collision. He rights himself, then joins Clive as the two carefully descend the remaining hillside.

A little more insight is given as the pair of men make their way to the small Swedish village below.

Clive tried to pry more details out of the Viking's head, "So Earth... I mean, Midgard, is one of many worlds, and all are connected by a giant... tree? Which world are you from?"

Skarn was happy to indulge in the questions, despite his wondering how any person could be so naive. "I was born in Midgard, as you were. My clan once lived not far from here. I now hunt across all of Yggdrasil's roots. I have no home."

"Oh...," Clive felt as though it might be a sensitive subject. "The village is used to catering to tourists... er, visitors. Once we get you some regular clothes, you won't stick out as much."

Skarn nodded, still holding out hope for strong drink. Clive led him down into the pass that led to the village of Gluddun. Branson looked forward to a hot meal and a night's rest.

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Father Ilya replaced the book on its ornate shelf, and walked Ormstunga to the door of his office.

"Surely. I have a chartered helicopter service that can take us to location. It should be fueled and ready by tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should... rest until then?"

The uppity cleric stood at the entrance to the Basilica, watching as his new associate walked slowly into the cold night. "Meet me here in the morning when you are ready. We should depart by 10."

Ormstunga offered a faint nod before wandering out into the evning air. No longer mortal, a being such as he needed no rest. Instead, the world-traveler would meditate, and perhaps "refine" his dark skills on the denizens of late night Moscow.

As he left, Ilya shuddered. He anticipated the time when he would be able to order the destruction of the foul creature that dared threaten him.

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

A proud Prottignrari leered at his victims. The edge of the river valley was dotted with the unconscious, beaten forms of four unwary hikers. These foolish men were Protti's latest victims, soon to be his latest meal. The two females descended the steep hillside, each brandishing stones in thier hands and tears in their eyes. They cursed the giant in an odd lanugage, both seemingly determined to end his hunt all the more quickly.

Protti stepped forward to meet them, allowing his giant shadow to be cast in their path. His advance caught them unprepared, and their pace lessened abruptly. Protti storode forward, ducking under one of the larger rocks the women lobbed his way. He would soon be within arm's reach of the tiny humans, and then his hunt would be at an end.

The women shuddered, stopping still in their tracks simultaneously. Each of them cowered away from the Frost Giant, tucking knees under themselves, as if frozen in place, unable to run.

It quickly came to Protti's attention that the terrified eyes of his young prey gazed beyond his own form, to something from behind.

But there was no time to turn around.

Protti gritted his teeth in agony as a mighty warhammer swung low and wide, sailing into his mammoth rib cage and sending him reeling. The giant was lifted from the ground by the blow, sent into a long arc trajectory before touching down with a painful thud on the far side of the river. His body crackled with the sting of an electric charge.

The pain and confusion of the sudden attack left Protti shaken. He composed himself slowly, able only to watch as a blurry figure collected the downed mortals one by one and helped carry them on their way.

A string of curses rumbled out of the semi-conscious Frost Giant, unable to do more than sit upright while his injured captives fled. The once-unseen assailant stepped momentarily to the water's edge, looking across until he was sure he had the giant's attention. In his weakened state, Protti could not rise to challenge... only listen.

"Run home," came a strong voice of rebuke. "Or you will rue the day you crossed Thor, Foe of All Giants!"

Even as his enemy departed, Protti felt a burning rage grow within him. He would heal... and then, he would indeed find vengenace. But first, he would need a powerful weapon of his own. He knew he must find Hjalmstallrklofna.