Just a little fic on the upbringings of Dethklok and how they eventually come to meet each other. First five chapters will focus on each member individually. Still an amateur writer who's thinking this story up as he goes along, so don't expect a work of Shakespeare from this.

Note: I attempted to write some lines in Norwegian, but a reviewer (thanks, Superlabelgirl) pointed out that several Norwegian characters are missing. So, italics will symbolize Norwegian (and Swedish, once we get to Skwisgaar's chapter).

Toki had grown used to the cold, to the pain of his lifestyle. Even as he slipped and his knee was scraped and impaled by a sharp chunk of ice, he remained unfazed, as he knew that his father would not be pleased if he saw him showing any sort of pain. He continued up the hill, his broom held firmly in his hands as he thourougly sweeped the snow away. Toki found it odd that he had to sweep the snow all the way up on the hill when his family never even used it for anything, but he didn't dare question them.

The blizzard around him raged on and a snowflake found its way into his eye, stinging and making him flinch. He lost his grip on the broom and tripped on the snow behind him, falling backwards. He pleaded to the Gods that his parents didn't see this, but as he hesitantly turned his head, he saw his father, Reverend Aslaug Wartooth, staring blankly, coldly. He stood unmoving, his impossibly dark cloak waving slowly in the chilling wind. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he extended his arm out, pointing a long, bony, skeletal finger toward the boy, and then curving the finger into a beckoning motion.

Toki wasted no time, as scared as he was. He reached for the broom and dragged it along beside him as he trudged down to meet his father. He eventually got to the bottom of the hill, looking up into the Reverend's unfeeling, wide eyes. His mouth curved downward in a furious frown before opening, the soft, quiet, nigh-whispered word scarily audible over the howling of the wind.

"Follow."

Toki bit back a whimper as he followed his father into the house, passing by his mother, into the basement of their small home. Aslaug thrust the door open and pointed to the end of the basement. Two chains hung from the wall, stained with the blood of the young boy who lived (or rather, worked) here. Toki knew what he needed to do. Obeying Aslaug's silent command, he ran to the chains and closed his eyes, waiting for it to all be over.

Aslaug reached for an ancient, squalor little bible, the pages yellow and torn. He recited lines, already etched far too deep into Toki's mind, as he reached for a whip. He slashed the boy with intense rage, Toki trying as hard as he could not to cry. Aslaug roared over the cracking of his whip, reading the same passages that Toki always heard, that Toki always found synonymous to punishment. The pain was too much, and he couldn't hold the tears back. He sobbed, much more loudly than was acceptable.

Aslaug paused. His mouth opened, his eyes narrowed in disgust, and he snapped his bible shut, the pages clapping together and dispersing a cloud of dust.

"Boy, do you seek further punishment?"

Toki closed his eyes tightly, desperately attempting to push the tears back.

"No, father, I am sorry!"

Aslaug grabbed Toki's chin, putting far too close his own face to his son's.

"Do you really think "sorry" will save you?"

Toki shook his head, swallowing his saliva.

"Then next time, do not be so weak."

He whipped harder, faster, with more rage than before. His recitations boomed through the large basement, drowning out the crack of the whip. Finally, after countless vicious slices at Toki's body, Aslaug dropped the whip and unchained him.

"Get back to your chores. Now."

Toki obliged, nodding his head frantically and rushing out. As he headed for the door, he heard quite the noise upstairs. He heard his mother, swearing and "Demanding answers", and the timid but stern voice of a man who he did not know. This man, however, was speaking some other language. Toki only knew Norwegian; He could not understand this man at all, and he assumed his mother couldn't either. Toki acted like he had heard nothing so as not to upset his father and continued through the door.

"Who the hell are you? Get out of my house!"

The foreign man spoke again.

"Ma'am, , my name is Charles Foster Ofdensen. I have, ah, reason to believe that you have not been, ah, raising your child properly."

Toki, now in the room with his mother and the man, saw him. He was wearing a formal suit and tie, short hair brushed back and smart glasses perched atop his nose. Toki could tell the look on Ofdensen's face was that of concentration. Ofdensen was attempting to understand what langauge Anja was speaking. He quickly understood it as Norwegian and spoke the same sentence in their tongue. He was still a little rough on the language, but nevertheless sure he got his message through. Anja's contorted face told him that.

"To hell with you! Who do you think you are?"

Charles was about to continue speaking, but Aslaug interrupted. He brushed his coat back and marched toward the suited man, his imposing figure towering over Ofdensen's.

"You will leave my home. My son is being raised properly."

Ofdensen opened his mouth to speak, but Aslaug threw his cold hand forward and grasped Ofdensen's neck around it. Being a trained fighter, Ofdensen was completely unfazed by this. He wrenched Aslaug's fingers from his neck and quickly aimed a fist directly for the Norwegian man's face, knocking him to the ground.

"Looks like I ah, knocked you out COLD. Because it's blizzarding. Outside." Ofdensen pinched his nose and felt the urge to cut out his vocal chords so as to prevent himself from ever saying that again. He shot a cold glare at Anja who, despite being so used to her husband's usual blank stare, reeled back and yelped.

Ofdensen turned away, straightened his tie, carefully stepped over Aslaug's unconscious body and kneeled down to speak to Toki, who stood completely frozen in the basement doorway.

"Toki? Come with me, please."

Toki was still in shock. Not from his father getting his ass rightfully handed to him before his very eyes, but because he had just seen another human. A human with such colorful skin, a human so very talkative, a human who did not give off a cold, ghostly air.

He unconsciously grabbed the older man's hand. Ofdensen pulled the boy along behind him, running from the house and through a forest of fir trees. Once they were far enough from the house, Ofdensen raised his arm to his mouth and turned on an odd device wrapped around his wrist.

"Hello? Charles Ofdensen speaking. Yes, we have another one."