Bata City, Equatorial Guinea, Homeline
The harbour waters were calm, perfect conditions for transit.
Crew and technicians hurried around, no one knew what conditions would greet them on the other side, Kit Polka stood calmly on the upper deck allowing the excited tension around her to excite her muscles.
She bit her lip feeling all unnecessary and smiled suggestively at a muscly deckhand, news helicopters circled above, Tony had really come through for her, this was going to be worthy of winning a Wooldridge Award.
She watched as the Trans-sports tech crews started to emerge on the deck having supervised the storage of their equipment, this was a joint enterprise between Trans-sport and the Chronicle, the former relying on the latter’s transworld license from Infinity Inc.
So she found herself as anchor for a first, an Americas Cup style race to be raced on the Ocean Earth Oceanus. Looking over the rail she saw the massive wing sail catamarans loaded on immense cradles within the hold, this view allowed by the fact the ships stern was hinged open like a pair of massive doors.
A loudspeaker boomed above her “ALL PASSENGERS AND CREW PLEASE PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO TRANSIT POSTS, THIS IS NOT A DRILL PLEASE PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO TRANSITS POSTS, TRANSIT IN T-MINUS 5 MINUTES”
Each passenger and crew member had a wireless pager on their wrist which started a second by second countdown, Kit drew in a breath of Homeline air and strutted across the deck to the seats in the passenger lounge, with all the elegant stride of a supermodel.
The Chronicle
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
The Noveg Plain, Norway
Hidden within a copse of trees the pack sat around a fire ripping pieces of sizzling meat from the body of a downed elk, like a pack of lions Fairbourne had waited until the warriors had taken their share starting with Thorne.
Their journey north had brought them against several more Viking war packs all sent to Valhalla with equal measure of efficiency and ferocity.
A snow flurry danced above the trees obscuring the smoke, none of them spoke and Fairbourne
avoided meeting any of their gazes, especially the lupine Bardolf or Thorne.
Only the swordsman Eòdor gave him a stoic nod, Fairbourne caught Thorne glaring at him.
The big warrior stood exposed muscle seemingly impervious to the Arctic cold, his mane of black hair having lost its spiked styling to sweat and snow, hawk like features holding hard grey eyes, no warmth came from their leader.
He swept his great fur cloak aside and trudged down the slope to where the copse stopped its following of the slope, from this vantage he looked out into the black night, Bardolf sniffed the air, snorted at the fire, took one final suck of marrow from his elk leg bone and shuffled off in an animal like manner into the higher tree line.
The night silent Fairbourne was left with Eòdor, the swordsman had a Gallic look to him, long chestnut hair, woven with braids to keep the locks from getting in his way, a short beard covered his tanned face.
His garb was a mix of almost Arabian and medieval, baggy trousers strapped from the knee down into boots, his torso clad in a woollen shirt, beneath green bronze scale armour and festooned with more belts than Fairbourne could count, each belt holding a scabbard.
“You krup ap” he said not looking at the journalist, David thought on what the warrior had said, picking through the dialect ‘You kept up’, He nodded in response.
Eòdor nodded in what could almost be acknowledgement “Guut” he replied, stood and took up position against a tree, a silent signal that the short exchange had finished.
‘Progress’ thought Fairbourne
Hidden within a copse of trees the pack sat around a fire ripping pieces of sizzling meat from the body of a downed elk, like a pack of lions Fairbourne had waited until the warriors had taken their share starting with Thorne.
Their journey north had brought them against several more Viking war packs all sent to Valhalla with equal measure of efficiency and ferocity.
A snow flurry danced above the trees obscuring the smoke, none of them spoke and Fairbourne
avoided meeting any of their gazes, especially the lupine Bardolf or Thorne.
Only the swordsman Eòdor gave him a stoic nod, Fairbourne caught Thorne glaring at him.
The big warrior stood exposed muscle seemingly impervious to the Arctic cold, his mane of black hair having lost its spiked styling to sweat and snow, hawk like features holding hard grey eyes, no warmth came from their leader.
He swept his great fur cloak aside and trudged down the slope to where the copse stopped its following of the slope, from this vantage he looked out into the black night, Bardolf sniffed the air, snorted at the fire, took one final suck of marrow from his elk leg bone and shuffled off in an animal like manner into the higher tree line.
The night silent Fairbourne was left with Eòdor, the swordsman had a Gallic look to him, long chestnut hair, woven with braids to keep the locks from getting in his way, a short beard covered his tanned face.
His garb was a mix of almost Arabian and medieval, baggy trousers strapped from the knee down into boots, his torso clad in a woollen shirt, beneath green bronze scale armour and festooned with more belts than Fairbourne could count, each belt holding a scabbard.
“You krup ap” he said not looking at the journalist, David thought on what the warrior had said, picking through the dialect ‘You kept up’, He nodded in response.
Eòdor nodded in what could almost be acknowledgement “Guut” he replied, stood and took up position against a tree, a silent signal that the short exchange had finished.
‘Progress’ thought Fairbourne
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
The Noveg Plain, Norway
The copse of fur trees in which they camped stood upon the slope of a hill, the hollow within their centre no more than a couple of yards across.
Fairbourne looked up to see the Corsican archer Phyrras appear out of the deep green foliage, he looked at Eòdor “λεξικό δεν βρήκε καμία λέξη” <We are not alone>,
the swordsman nodded, all three looked down to see the huge form of Thorne had vanished.
Phyrras lunged forward bowling Fairbourne over backwards and into the tree line, as he tumbled he heard a thunderous crash and splintering of wood, followed by an ear splitting bellow.
The archer was back upon his feet in a heartbeat, bow drawn and returning fire, the journalist shielded his eyes as an explosion erupted within the grove followed by a roar or pain and outrage.
The archer hurtled back into the trees, hurrying Fairbourne to this feet and pushing him stumbling out of the trees onto the snow laden bank beyond.
The journalists gaze followed the swirling snowflakes dancing a frenetic jig across the treetops to the form that moved above them, the form of a huge, gigantic man.
The titan bellowed in rage as Phyrras sent another exploding arrow over the trees and into its chest, the monster seemed unperturbed however before it could vent its fury it spun roaring at something to its rear.
Fairbournes professional instincts began to override his fear, he slid down the bank landing in the deep snow at its base, allowing his vision to once again settle he saw Thorne dart in and out of the giants legs delivering great swipes with his huge sword.
The giant brought its tree trunk club down with literally earth shattering force, he waited as a great cloud of snow blew up in response, had the beast pummelled Thorne.
His answer was another explosion, followed by three smaller explosions as the snow cleared he saw the giant collapse one of its lower legs connected to the thigh by a few strands of sinew, its chest a bloody mess.
Thorne sprinted across the snow and without pause ran up the monsters back avoiding its flailing arms, he swung his greatsword into the side of its neck severing its jugular, swinging himself around he delivered a further blow to the other artery.
The giant finally connected with its attacker hurling Thorne like a big ragdoll, the beast bellowed in pain trying to pull itself back up, however Eòdor took the warriors place, slicing deeply into the creature’s throat while avoiding its swinging fists.
Fairbourne had managed to start his minicam and caught Thorne appear out of the snow, the big warrior held a large boulder above his head, huge muscles straining until he got close enough.
Eòdor leapt clear, Thorne hoisted the boulder to the full extension of his arms and hurled it straight onto the top of the giants skull with a sickening crack.
Before the stone had even rolled clear Eòdor rammed his long sword into its skull stilling its thrashing form, hand still steady Fairbourne blinked in disbelief.
The crazy bastards had just killed a forty foot tall giant.
The copse of fur trees in which they camped stood upon the slope of a hill, the hollow within their centre no more than a couple of yards across.
Fairbourne looked up to see the Corsican archer Phyrras appear out of the deep green foliage, he looked at Eòdor “λεξικό δεν βρήκε καμία λέξη” <We are not alone>,
the swordsman nodded, all three looked down to see the huge form of Thorne had vanished.
Phyrras lunged forward bowling Fairbourne over backwards and into the tree line, as he tumbled he heard a thunderous crash and splintering of wood, followed by an ear splitting bellow.
The archer was back upon his feet in a heartbeat, bow drawn and returning fire, the journalist shielded his eyes as an explosion erupted within the grove followed by a roar or pain and outrage.
The archer hurtled back into the trees, hurrying Fairbourne to this feet and pushing him stumbling out of the trees onto the snow laden bank beyond.
The journalists gaze followed the swirling snowflakes dancing a frenetic jig across the treetops to the form that moved above them, the form of a huge, gigantic man.
The titan bellowed in rage as Phyrras sent another exploding arrow over the trees and into its chest, the monster seemed unperturbed however before it could vent its fury it spun roaring at something to its rear.
Fairbournes professional instincts began to override his fear, he slid down the bank landing in the deep snow at its base, allowing his vision to once again settle he saw Thorne dart in and out of the giants legs delivering great swipes with his huge sword.
The giant brought its tree trunk club down with literally earth shattering force, he waited as a great cloud of snow blew up in response, had the beast pummelled Thorne.
His answer was another explosion, followed by three smaller explosions as the snow cleared he saw the giant collapse one of its lower legs connected to the thigh by a few strands of sinew, its chest a bloody mess.
Thorne sprinted across the snow and without pause ran up the monsters back avoiding its flailing arms, he swung his greatsword into the side of its neck severing its jugular, swinging himself around he delivered a further blow to the other artery.
The giant finally connected with its attacker hurling Thorne like a big ragdoll, the beast bellowed in pain trying to pull itself back up, however Eòdor took the warriors place, slicing deeply into the creature’s throat while avoiding its swinging fists.
Fairbourne had managed to start his minicam and caught Thorne appear out of the snow, the big warrior held a large boulder above his head, huge muscles straining until he got close enough.
Eòdor leapt clear, Thorne hoisted the boulder to the full extension of his arms and hurled it straight onto the top of the giants skull with a sickening crack.
Before the stone had even rolled clear Eòdor rammed his long sword into its skull stilling its thrashing form, hand still steady Fairbourne blinked in disbelief.
The crazy bastards had just killed a forty foot tall giant.
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
Oceanus IV - 10th Century
Kit Polker stood against the rail of the Chronicles support motor yacht The Jack Fuller, the craft bobbing up and down, ignoring the slight nausea she looked down at Team American's catamaran, watching as a sonic pulse radiated out from below its hulls.
Each boat was equipped with enhanced sensors and sonic pulses to dissuade the oceans multitude of predators, Kit checked her hair, pursed her lips and winked at the buff tech who had kept her company the previous night.
She quickly descended the ladder from the support boat to the US catamaran.
Eight 30 meter wing sail catamarans had been lowered into the choppy waters off the coast of Cinnabar Island, each yachts team now ran through the plethora of checks on their vesselsDivergence Point: Archean Period 2.5 Billion years ago, continental landmasses fail to form above sea level. Earth evolves as an Ocean World.
Kit Polker stood against the rail of the Chronicles support motor yacht The Jack Fuller, the craft bobbing up and down, ignoring the slight nausea she looked down at Team American's catamaran, watching as a sonic pulse radiated out from below its hulls.
Each boat was equipped with enhanced sensors and sonic pulses to dissuade the oceans multitude of predators, Kit checked her hair, pursed her lips and winked at the buff tech who had kept her company the previous night.
She quickly descended the ladder from the support boat to the US catamaran.
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
The Dovrefjell Mountains - Molde, Norway, Asgard
The special ops group were one and all hulking walls of muscle, the smallest being the hard severe form of their commander Captain Willis.
Each stood clad in white thermal battle suits, armed to the teeth, Omar met their hard stares as he listened to the orders on his datachip
<Captain Omar the recent decision to classify Aesir as an R3 Worldline has raised concerns following the death or disappearance of four Homeline citizens, whereabouts we understand resources have been deployed special operations team 11A17 will ensure all Homeline personnel and technology are suitably contained>
Omar nodded thoughtfully, a not unexpected move although as lethal as Captain Willis and her team were his money was still on Thorne, the barbarian mercenary was unreliable but he knew the cut of these savages.
As the team decanted their equipment from their trunks, Willis accompanied Oman up to the command post “What do we have?” he asked the comms officer
“Further hostiles, they’ve taken cover at the base of the mountain” he replied
“How will you break their line”
The first sign of emotion crossed Willis’s face, a thin grim smile “Snow boards, all of my team are at competitive standard and combat trained, they won’t know what hits them”
Omar nodded, turning as the largest soldier appeared at the top of the stairs, Willis turned “Sergeant?”
“We are ready to move” he replied in a thick Scandinavian accent
“Our resident Viking” Willis commented, Omar regarded the heavily muscled straw blond, ice blue eyed warrior, a thick beard lining his heavy jaw.
Willis snapped a salute to Omar, before marching toward the stairs, reaching the bottom she looked from troop to troop “Perimeter defences will still be operational, everyone activate their IFF tags now”
Each trooper clicked a white tag prompting a momentary blue light before fading out
“READY” shouted the base sergeant, having donned their helmets, each nodded their affirmation. The sergeant then activated the HTH’s side hatch and the ghostly forms of the special operations troop disappeared at high speed into the blizzard, sweeping from side to side with the proficiency of Olympic snowboarders.
The special ops group were one and all hulking walls of muscle, the smallest being the hard severe form of their commander Captain Willis.
Each stood clad in white thermal battle suits, armed to the teeth, Omar met their hard stares as he listened to the orders on his datachip
<Captain Omar the recent decision to classify Aesir as an R3 Worldline has raised concerns following the death or disappearance of four Homeline citizens, whereabouts we understand resources have been deployed special operations team 11A17 will ensure all Homeline personnel and technology are suitably contained>
Omar nodded thoughtfully, a not unexpected move although as lethal as Captain Willis and her team were his money was still on Thorne, the barbarian mercenary was unreliable but he knew the cut of these savages.
As the team decanted their equipment from their trunks, Willis accompanied Oman up to the command post “What do we have?” he asked the comms officer
“Further hostiles, they’ve taken cover at the base of the mountain” he replied
“How will you break their line”
The first sign of emotion crossed Willis’s face, a thin grim smile “Snow boards, all of my team are at competitive standard and combat trained, they won’t know what hits them”
Omar nodded, turning as the largest soldier appeared at the top of the stairs, Willis turned “Sergeant?”
“We are ready to move” he replied in a thick Scandinavian accent
“Our resident Viking” Willis commented, Omar regarded the heavily muscled straw blond, ice blue eyed warrior, a thick beard lining his heavy jaw.
Willis snapped a salute to Omar, before marching toward the stairs, reaching the bottom she looked from troop to troop “Perimeter defences will still be operational, everyone activate their IFF tags now”
Each trooper clicked a white tag prompting a momentary blue light before fading out
“READY” shouted the base sergeant, having donned their helmets, each nodded their affirmation. The sergeant then activated the HTH’s side hatch and the ghostly forms of the special operations troop disappeared at high speed into the blizzard, sweeping from side to side with the proficiency of Olympic snowboarders.
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
Oceanus IV - 10th Century
The Oceanid Balcony – Cinnabar Island
The north west corner of the island had a series of curved platform balconies following the northern curvature, the uppermost balcony was a palatial affair reserved for the wealthiest or most important of residents or visitors.
Positioned within the center of the balconies 2 mile long expanse was the exclusive Tethys Club, its open air restaurant overlooking the azure ocean 50 meters below, the terrace currently was deserted apart from a group sat around a twelve place table.
Tony Larcomonni took his attention from the magnificent spectacle below, the numerous cutting edge wing sail catamarans prepping to race.
He looked over to the standoff between the two high rollers at the other end, on the left Infinity World Manager Tyrone E Goff, on the right Matriarch Anisa Miriv Aravich Hoste.
Larcomonni had met ballbreakers in his time however Anisa Hoste was undoubtedly top of the tree, an almost legendary figure among the Infinity rumormill, however her indomitable presence seemed to be tempered by the man sat opposite her.
Goff was an authorative late middle aged man, his strawberry blonde hair shot with white framing a heavily lined face, Tony was present to ensure The Chronicle Sports coverage of the event was a complete and utter success.
He knew of Goff purely by reputation, a veteran World Manager of 7 Worldlines, brought out of semi-retirement to manage Oceanus and counter Hoste.
He had been utterly silent reading through the paperwork Hoste’s people had given him, before he put the stack down on the table and regarded the Ice Maiden over his glasses.
“Why has the profit percentage changed from 10 to 12 percent?”
Anisa gave him a cool look “Operating Costs” she replied
“You have a cost projection of these additional costs?” he parried and thrust in response
“Of course she purred” handing him a wad of papers
Goff made a show of leafing through the document, before returning to the negotiation.
“Deal” replied Goff
Hoste narrowed her eyes “You roll over so easily Mr Goff” he said in her thick accent after studying him
“It isn’t an unreasonable sum Mrs Hoste”
“That was too easy” replied Hoste smugly and leant forward to stand
“If we’re making small amendments to our contract, the additional 2% would be based upon a increase from 3 to 5 years Trans-World Sports deal and Equatoral TriCore Coordinates” added Goff conversationally
Hard eyes narrowed and fixed upon Goff “I don’t find those terms agreeable Mr Goff” the latter emphasized with annoyance
“Happy to return to the original terms” Goff smiled faintly
Anisa Hoste sat back, Tony also reclined in his seat watching the power play unfold, Goff smiled “Ladies, Gentlemen would you give Mrs Hoste and myself a few moments”, the rest of the PAs, Marketing Executives, Tony and Trans-World Marketing Director Neil Cavaliss stood and retreated to the Caribbean style thatch roof bar, the barman already setting up a series of cocktails.
Cavaliss drew his e-cigarette, potent Morrocan flavours permeated the air as he drew the vapour in “Going to be a long night” he said looking out over the ocean.
Nodding Tony lifted his Four Horseman and took at measured draught, Oceanus didn’t do small and a huge shoal of rainbow colored flying fish broke the water surface becoming a cyclone of colour encircling the moored wing sails and their crews.
Both men chuckled as the young female PAs ooed and gasped.
The Oceanid Balcony – Cinnabar Island
The north west corner of the island had a series of curved platform balconies following the northern curvature, the uppermost balcony was a palatial affair reserved for the wealthiest or most important of residents or visitors.
Positioned within the center of the balconies 2 mile long expanse was the exclusive Tethys Club, its open air restaurant overlooking the azure ocean 50 meters below, the terrace currently was deserted apart from a group sat around a twelve place table.
Tony Larcomonni took his attention from the magnificent spectacle below, the numerous cutting edge wing sail catamarans prepping to race.
He looked over to the standoff between the two high rollers at the other end, on the left Infinity World Manager Tyrone E Goff, on the right Matriarch Anisa Miriv Aravich Hoste.
Larcomonni had met ballbreakers in his time however Anisa Hoste was undoubtedly top of the tree, an almost legendary figure among the Infinity rumormill, however her indomitable presence seemed to be tempered by the man sat opposite her.
Goff was an authorative late middle aged man, his strawberry blonde hair shot with white framing a heavily lined face, Tony was present to ensure The Chronicle Sports coverage of the event was a complete and utter success.
He knew of Goff purely by reputation, a veteran World Manager of 7 Worldlines, brought out of semi-retirement to manage Oceanus and counter Hoste.
He had been utterly silent reading through the paperwork Hoste’s people had given him, before he put the stack down on the table and regarded the Ice Maiden over his glasses.
“Why has the profit percentage changed from 10 to 12 percent?”
Anisa gave him a cool look “Operating Costs” she replied
“You have a cost projection of these additional costs?” he parried and thrust in response
“Of course she purred” handing him a wad of papers
Goff made a show of leafing through the document, before returning to the negotiation.
“Deal” replied Goff
Hoste narrowed her eyes “You roll over so easily Mr Goff” he said in her thick accent after studying him
“It isn’t an unreasonable sum Mrs Hoste”
“That was too easy” replied Hoste smugly and leant forward to stand
“If we’re making small amendments to our contract, the additional 2% would be based upon a increase from 3 to 5 years Trans-World Sports deal and Equatoral TriCore Coordinates” added Goff conversationally
Hard eyes narrowed and fixed upon Goff “I don’t find those terms agreeable Mr Goff” the latter emphasized with annoyance
“Happy to return to the original terms” Goff smiled faintly
Anisa Hoste sat back, Tony also reclined in his seat watching the power play unfold, Goff smiled “Ladies, Gentlemen would you give Mrs Hoste and myself a few moments”, the rest of the PAs, Marketing Executives, Tony and Trans-World Marketing Director Neil Cavaliss stood and retreated to the Caribbean style thatch roof bar, the barman already setting up a series of cocktails.
Cavaliss drew his e-cigarette, potent Morrocan flavours permeated the air as he drew the vapour in “Going to be a long night” he said looking out over the ocean.
Nodding Tony lifted his Four Horseman and took at measured draught, Oceanus didn’t do small and a huge shoal of rainbow colored flying fish broke the water surface becoming a cyclone of colour encircling the moored wing sails and their crews.
Both men chuckled as the young female PAs ooed and gasped.
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
The Fortress of The Blessed, The Isle of Gwales, Kingdom of Gwynedd.Asgard - Divergence Point: 780AD, Viking Scalds discover Rune Magic, they use this to battle the Linorms and Trolls in the Northern Icelands.
Current Affairs: 819AD the Scandinavian Kingdoms are subject to Civil War as the Christine Danes battle the Norwegian Aesir, in order to wipe out the Old Gods.
He stood upon the top of an ancient stairwell, Bran Prince of Gwynedd soaked in every mote of dust, scent of mold, every worn boulder, the base of the stairwell led into the grand hall and the assembled gathering of lords.
He moved into the throng, the assembled were slow to notice him his journey had taken him far for a long time, as they did murmurs and shocked recognition met him until he reached the main table. His uncle King of Gwynedd Rhodri the Great looked stern, the Lords around him looking uncertain.
Rhodi stood stepping around the large round table, slowly walking to his nephew arms outstretched “Nephew you should have sent word, we would have prepared a feast in your honour” his eyes spoke of warning
Hugging his nephew he whispered “We must retire to my chambers quickly”
They walked slowly beyond the hall, through the fortress halls and finally into the royal chambers. The chambers were Spartan for those of a king, rough oak draped in bright wool, worn rugs upon rough stone
“What news do you bring from the Northlands” the king said, his face troubled
“What has become of you!” replied Bran, Rhodi merely looked at his nephew
Bran felt the turbulence in the Dragons Breath, tendrils of mist crept around his limbs worming into his muscles drawing his strength, slowing his heart and clouding his mind.
They dragged him back through the halls, back to the main hall, the Lords baying for his blood before they were silenced by a short cloaked figure who moved furtively through the throng.
“AND SO THE PRETENDER RETURNS, WHAT PACT HAVE YOU MADE WITH THE NORSEMEN WHO RAID OUR SHORES AND PILLAGE OUR WOMAN” the figure howled, his cowl falling away to reveal an emaciated wizened old man, his toothless mouth sending spittle flying his whispy hair wafting around his head.
Still shouting his vehement proclamations he approached the Prince, who’s weak form was still firmly held down by burley retainers, he knelt beside Bran “It was unwise to return my Lord” he whispered, the mania seeming to have suddenly left him until he stood once more and the mantle was once again upon him.
“THERE IS BUT ONE REWARD FOR SUCH TREACHERY” He bellowed
Bran lacked the strength to scream as the retainers sank their short swords into his back, dragging him to this feet, more retainers impaled him upon their spears, before cutting his head from his body.
The King of King of Gwynedd cast his eyes to the floor; embittered cowardice prevented him from seeing his nephews last moments.
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arcanus
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The Chronicle
The Dovrefjell Mountains - Molde, Norway, Asgard
Spec Ops Unit 11A17 zigzagged down the mountainside maintaining tight formation.
Their Viking sergeant Styr and their other physical tank a Jamaican called Shandrel hit the enemy line first playing the part of a lethal offensive line.
Tactical review of the murderous assault on the researchers had indicated that the attackers were able to camouflage their body temperature, as such their sensors were set to full spectrum vision allowing them to target the awaiting norsemen.
Armed with a hyperdense mace Styr wove through the perimeter line, silently shattering bodies, Shandrel took the other flank dispatching Vikings with an equally deadly hyperdense quarter staff.
Arrows flickered through the blizzard targeting their positions, the response was a collective series of three round bursts as the team broke the Vikings line.
***
Omar watched the team’s descent, so far the norsemen hadn’t taken any down, however the depth of their numbers weren’t apparent.
“The Norse are targeting them sir” commented the comm officer
“They must be able to see parachronic energy!” he replied thoughtfully, “Provide them with drone cover and prep a comm burst to Olympus!”
“Sir!”
Spec Ops Unit 11A17 zigzagged down the mountainside maintaining tight formation.
Their Viking sergeant Styr and their other physical tank a Jamaican called Shandrel hit the enemy line first playing the part of a lethal offensive line.
Tactical review of the murderous assault on the researchers had indicated that the attackers were able to camouflage their body temperature, as such their sensors were set to full spectrum vision allowing them to target the awaiting norsemen.
Armed with a hyperdense mace Styr wove through the perimeter line, silently shattering bodies, Shandrel took the other flank dispatching Vikings with an equally deadly hyperdense quarter staff.
Arrows flickered through the blizzard targeting their positions, the response was a collective series of three round bursts as the team broke the Vikings line.
***
Omar watched the team’s descent, so far the norsemen hadn’t taken any down, however the depth of their numbers weren’t apparent.
“The Norse are targeting them sir” commented the comm officer
“They must be able to see parachronic energy!” he replied thoughtfully, “Provide them with drone cover and prep a comm burst to Olympus!”
“Sir!”
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arcanus
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Re: The Chronicle
Dinas Emrys, The Eternal Fortress - Kingdom of Gwynedd.Asgard - Divergence Point: 780AD, Viking Scalds discover Rune Magic, they use this to battle the Linorms and Trolls in the Northern Icelands.
Current Affairs: 819AD the Scandinavian Kingdoms are subject to Civil War as the Christian Danes battle the Norwegian Aesir, in order to wipe out the Old Gods.
Deep within earthen warrens and glowing subterranean stone caverns a thick white fog wound its tendrils throughout the winding tunnels that ran within the ancient hills.
The wary Cymry stayed well away from the Dragon caves and with good reason, the mist bubbled around cave entrances and fissures in the ground, the tunnels themselves seemed to draw breath the thick white vapour inhaled back underground to be expelled with the next exhalation.
Through the cracks and voids of the other places, the woads and wyres the elder send the roots of Ancient Cedarshade, the immortal tree, father of oak, in a voice that twisted the air and made a mans teeth ache he called upon Crom Cruach The Worm Lord, that which wound itself around Cedershades immortal trunk, that which chewed through the walls between places.
The air and mist burned, smaller roots smouldered, upon the edges of the elders vison infernos rages and whole forests consumed, his inhuman eyes looked out across the hills, following Father Oaks roots, through the earth, through the stone until they reached up through the foundations of a castle sat upon the cliffs of Gwales.
The roots broke through the cellar floor, seeping across the stones until finding the cold corpse they sought, viciously they stabbed into recently dead flesh, quickly weaving through muscle and sinew they drank deeply.
In mere moments the body sagged and deflated, drained of all substance, having retrieved its seed Cedarshade gifted the flesh to Crom and departed the fortress.