Where Does Rage Come From?

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Where Does Rage Come From?

Post by HighVoltage » Thu Apr 02, 2020 7:10 am

Afvaldr stepped through the woods, branches snapping and cracking under his weight. The air was still, and the forest was silent save for the noises he was making. Finding a satisfactory stump, he eased himself down, letting out a small groan. Taking in a deep breath, Afvaldr reached down to grab a fallen branch. A knife appeared in his hand, it's frosty blade glinting blue in the morning light. He took a deep breath, pushing the edge of the blade against the wood before making the first swipe, the curl of wood falling soundlessly to the ground. Soon it was joined by more, and Afvaldr's eyes glazed over, his hands doing the work autonomously.

It wasn't long before the ghosts came. He saw them, marching towards him before parting like a river around his stump. They made no noise, marching in a silent double-file line. As they all passed and parted, one remained, very familiar. Afvaldr found comfort and familiarity in her steel gray hair; tied in a tight braid and trailing down her back, in her firm gaze; her face a stone mask of determination, and the way her sword was gripped; as if holding the hand off a friend or lover. As her eyes pierced into him, his gaze remained towards the ground. His lips began moving, almost of their own accord. A song began spilling out of his mouth, the voice low and heavy, thick with the Norse of his youth.

An elderly woman who was sent to war.
None expected she'd come back alive.
She was drafted with men far below her age.
The oldest was but twenty-five.

But she did not complain.
She tightened her grip
On the shield on her back
And the sword at her hip.
She marched to the field
And looked up to the sky
And she started the battle
With a visceral cry.

Some say she was mad
Or that she was possessed.
Others say that she fought
Like an angel of death.

Only one thing was clear
At the end of the fight:
She was still standing
Not a soldier in sight.

Her wounds were outstanding,
And yet she still stood.
None dared break the silence
That hung in that wood.
With one final breath
She fell to her side
And as she collapsed
The berserker had died.

But her work was not finished
The gods did decide
Instead of Valhalla,
She had a throne at their side.
And from there she ruled,
Giving power and might
And she never was far
From a battle or fight.

Grishna the Conqueror
Grishna the Brave
Grishna the Berserker
Long may she reign.
May your weapons strike true.
May your bow never break.
May you always be restless.
May we never need you again.

As the last note trailed off, the last stroke of the blade was complete. Looking down at what he'd created, he could scarcely believe it had been made by his thick hands and knife. Clutched in his left hand was an intricately carved orb, with spiral patterns running all along its outside edge that almost seemed to shift on their own. Holding out the orb, the figure reached out a hand and placed her hand on the orb, responding in the same tongue which had not been heard by most for centuries.

May your blade never dull.
May your rage never quell.
May your allies be many
and your enemies sent to Hel.

With that, Grishna gently picked up the orb and nodded, walking past him and deeper into the forest, with the rest of the ghosts. Afvaldr let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, the knife dropping to the ground and melting into the soil. The ritual complete, he muttered a silent thanks and began the trek back to civilization.

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