Heres a teaser to the fan fiction i'm writing...the rest is in rough shape, i need a lot more time to work on it :)
let me know what you think of the opener.
"The Champion" (title is under consideration)
Who are these strange men?
I ponder this as I traverse our Camp. Two weeks ago they came to us unexpected from the north…our commander ordered them a hero’s welcome, accepted their servitude and immediately gave them supplies and lodging, and had long meetings with one among their number, with strange glowing eyes. But from whence do they come? All we hear are shadowy whispers of the North, and great battles, and of a great Power against the dark. They are the famed Berserkers, world renowned for their skill with giant blades. Of that there is no doubt. We have seen numbers of them throughout our travels, and have come to respect their fighting prowess.
But these men…they are not ordinary berserkers.
They speak differently than their countrymen we have met. Slower…and with deep, pronounced voices. Their tongues seem to wrap around each spoken syllable…and then they do not merely Speak it, they instead Send it Forth, flinging it from their mouths into the air around them, where it travels, slowly but surely, floating majestically on the breeze, until it reaches the listeners ear. The beauty of their speech is unmatched. One feels as though he can listen to their tales for hours…if he can crack their hardened exteriors, that is. Or even get close enough for conversation.
A leaf rustles. I snap my head up, always alert for danger. But it is only a carrion bird…damn birds. It seems as though we get no rest from them. Wherever the Guard goes, they follow, picking through the refuse, always waiting for that next great feast. Its as if they have no idea that every feast for them means lost loved ones for us. It grieves me sorely to recall the times when our Guard was forced to flee the battlefield, leaving behind our wounded friends and brothers to the pecking of the birds. Not that we would never see them again; they would always show up in some later battle, gruesome looks of hate upon their dismembered faces, shuffling monsters bearing down on us awkwardly with no recollection of their past lives. But its just not the same somehow….such is the price of volunteering against the Watcher.
The stories of horror my comrades have to tell…I recall old Koch, a pumpkin farmer who lost his crop to some foul disease spread by the Fallen. He and his brother Shim were born and raised together, lived together, and, when they lost their farm, enlisted together.
Shim died in their first battle against the Dark-diving in front of a Kithless javelin aimed at his brother. Koch grieved his death for years.
It came to pass that Koch’s unit was passing nearby the old farm a few months ago. Koch, now an old man, wanted to see the homestead one last time…as his unit sat down to rest, they were ambushed by thrall. They fought valiantly…Koch himself hewed left and right, and mowed down no less than ten of the enemy. When but one thrall remained standing, Koch was the one who turned to meet him…and he stared into the mutilated face of his beloved brother. Frozen with shock, and horror, and a grief to great for any man to bear, he fell to his knees. Shim continued forward and hacked off his brothers left arm. The dark magics holding Shim to this world in which he does not belong finally collapsed under a hail of arrows, and he fell at his brothers feet. Koch lived for days with a greivious wound in his arm, refusing care, muttering and screaming of inner torment all the while. Finally, he passed on…most agree he died not of a flesh wound, but of a deeper sort that never heals.
I go to resume my wandering of the camp, when I hear singing. I take in my surroundings and notice, surprised that I’ve wandered near to the Berserkers part of camp. They’ve barely left their tents since they arrived, refusing an honor position near the middle of the camp for a reclusive outer edge. The most traffic they receive is the occasional runner, carrying messages from Wyrd knows where.
I pause and wonder, the pale light of the moon throwing a hint of light on my face. Why do these men hide themselves from our view? Is it possible that I was right, and they’re trying to hide something, that they’re not normal berserkers?
My father always said my curiosity would get me killed someday. I decide this might as well be the time…
I creep up to the tent and pause. Suddenly, I realize the foolishness of what I am about to attempt….these men are dangerous; I’ve seen them tear through ranks of thrall like a fine edged blade through a spiders flesh. Am I a madman?
I decide I cannot wait in this position any longer…I must return to the safety of our part of camp and rethink my rashness. I turn…and the tent opens.
I find myself staring into the strangest specimen of a man I have ever witnessed throughout my 800 years on this earth. This man looks strangely familiar…and then I notice his eyes. Or rather, I don’t notice them. They disappear almost completely beneath his brows and the dark of the night. And then I realize…Green…they glow green. It is faint but definite-I recall him as the man who greeted our commander upon the berserkers arrival.
His eyes aren’t the only thing thing unusual about him. He is unnaturally tall, easily surpassing seven feet in height. His appearance is that of the most powerful man I have ever seen…his build possibly surpasses even that of the legendary Warrior Captain Grond, who supposedly would hold boulder throwing contests with Forest Giants.
I stare in wonder. He is dressed as only a Northman would, wearing a kilt and not much else. Different about this man, though, is a brilliant ruby clasped around his neck by a golden chain.
All of my observations above recorded occur in less than a second. And a second later, he spoke.
“Welcome, Nine Eagle Flowing Water, Eldest Journeyman of the Elite Guard of Driscoll.”
Dumbfounded, I can only wonder, who is this enigma of a man? How does he know my name? His speech is even more beautiful up close than it was from a distance, and his entire bring somehow seems to just resonate with a power within.
Almost as if in answer to my question, he continues.
“Do not be afraid. I know who you are, for They have told me.”
Incredible. It is as if he is not even speaking at all-instead, as if the words are being imbedded directly into my inner ear.
“You may know my name, warrior, but I have yet to guess yours. Shall we be properly introduced?”
The giant laughed-a deep, slow laugh.
“Search your mind, young friend. And I say young quite purposefully-your mere few hundred years have passed like a shadow in my lifetime. Recall your lorebooks in the early days of your study....I am The Champion of the North. I am Kalamadea.”
