UNTAMED RAGE: PROLOGUE
"Each of us all must his end abide
in the ways of the world; so win who may
glory ere death! When his days are told,
that is the warrior's worthiest doom."
-Beowulf, Ch. 21
THERE was a man hunched over the hills.
He took a swig out of his bottle, splattering the strong ale over his lips. Raising a muscled hand to his lips, he brushed the droplets aside, although a few beads stubbornly clung onto his blonde moustache.
It was not everyday that he sat down like this, gazing into the horizon and reflecting on his past. Olaf the Berserker was bent over, his gauntlets resting on his exposed knees, gazing with his angry, yet rational eyes at the darkness beyond the icy slopes distrustingly. There was, as usual, several stray hairs dotting his forehead, golden strands against a plain of crimson skin. He had always brushed them up unknowingly, perhaps of his previous vanity as the Might of Lokfar, but now he felt he deserved it. He deserved the symbol of recognition of a savage.
His brothers, comrades in battle had been massacred one by one, and he had been exiled in disgrace. It was not because he did not follow rules-no, he never abhorred to them, but he had always been an outcast. His birthplace, history, and actions-no, not one was in accordance with the traditional berserker's.
He was still young, nothing like those that had passed away after a long, solitary life or those driven to insanity due to their humiliation as an exile, but already he had the few insistent strands that remained resolute in their attempt to always cloud his forehead, to always display his wild nature.
While the occasional onlooker would describe him as a massive brute of nature, fiercely territorial and almost bestial himself, none could look beyond his fogged eyes to see the true being that yearned not just for attention within.
Later on, he would make a name for himself, leading the Winter's Claw with the might of his dual axes, imposing his will on those that dared cross his path. He would, as he had done before, charge war-painted into the fray of battle, bearing the fearsome symbols of his domination in combat: the tanned mail created from beaten fur of the most vicious of beasts single-handedly slain by his axe, his prided helmet, completed with intricate curves and adorned with curved horns ending in deadly spires, carved off during his conquest of the dreaded frost serpent.
But any man that would view the distrustful, axe-brandishing lover of war would describe his pair of massive battle axes as his most defining feature. Coated with boiled leather at the handles, befitting his title as a berserker, his axes were his pride and joy. Each of them colossal, they were both complemented with sharp, spiked shafts, the blades of the deadly weapons sharpened to such an extent they could deliver oblivion with a single strike, capable of tearing through any piece of armour with the essence of slain beasts imbued within the mystical blade. Enchanted with the sacred elements of thunder and lightning, no foe could stand in its path without being beaten into submission.
Later on, he would become renowned in battle, his legendary status of a combat-hardened warrior enhanced by his numerous victories. But his past would always plague him, haunt him, trail behind him and stalk him like a set of hidden values. He would never know his true roots, his true identity, nor those he influenced that would become the greatest of the Freljord, just like him.
Thrust into hell on earth itself and tempered by the blazing inferno of hell, he would evolve in his future years to become something like an uncompromising, merciless predator, scourge of all Avarosan and Frostguardian alike. His presence on the battlefield would spell certain doom for his opponents, and death would become an element that revolved around him everyday.
But that was not now. Now, he was an disgraced exile, cast into a world that ignored his desperate needs. He would fight to survive, fight to live, before being reforged into the cruel demon that would stalk the battlefields and inflict terror upon his opponents.
Now...was different.
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Hi guys! This is my first fanfic, modelled after Olaf, the berserker. I was just cruising through the LoL Fanfic Archives the other day and discovered the absolute lack of Olaf fanfic. I couldn't imagine why, I think Olaf has one of the best lore, and it can be elaborated on so much, so I'm writing to prove my point.
Please do drop me suggestions in the review section! I will really appreciate them very much and also do my best regarding any questions you have.