UNTAMED RAGE
Chapter 1: Worthiness
I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,
Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated
Those who wade out into battle?
Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle
They bear bloody shields.
Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight.
They form a closed group.
The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men
Who hack through enemy shields.
-Thórbiörn Hornklofi, 9th century Norwegian poet
IMAGINE hell. Where flames roar, where judgment is delivered upon the weak, where victims grovel in its infernal pits, where the modern man of Demacia or Piltover would find it impossible to survive.
Lokfar.
There is only one phrase to describe it: Hell on Earth. Where the icicles were impaling stakes, the weather the burning inferno that threatened to engulf you wherever you were. There was only one way to survive in Lokfar, and that was rage. The berserkers had harnessed it for long enough to know the rekindling warmth that came along with the madness that proved so valuable in combat.
Lokfar was never passive. Its assault on its citizens never ceased, forever directing upon the berserkers obstacles: the dreaded winter whose harsh frost claimed the weak, the tempests that ravaged the coastal peninsular, and the pack of ferocious wolves attracted to the warmth of the berseker fires.
Yet the most vicious of environments bred the most vicious of talents. No one ever knew where his unending fury descended from, but it was rumoured that the young Olaf had descended from southern Freljord, surviving the unmerciful Lokfar winter that had claimed his parents. Supposedly, he had come to Lokfar after a long trudge, using the rage to overcome every of the challenges Lokfar had managed to throw at him. None dared question him of his origins, especially after the village chieftain, Ivar Osmond, had personally commended him on his outstanding performance in the Troll-Berserker Wars.
This is his tale of glory, of how he originated, how he ventured into the world, and how he carved his legacy into the ice of the Freljord itself.
"By Odin!" the patrons of the tavern rose in praise at the climax of the tale, narrated by the mighty warrior himself. He had personally committed the exploits that had so entranced them.
"Obliteration!" roared the berserker, his spittle descending on his audience that did not even flinch. "And all that dared block my path were destroyed!" continued Olaf, flexing his powerful muscles in an attempt to further enthrall the mesmerized crowd. Even the bartender had forsaken his position at the counter to listen to the legendary saga. All were captivated by his account. The sagas of Lokfar would later remember this battle as the decisive Battle of the Northern Peninsula, where the Berserkers successfully reclaimed vast swathes of land and dealt a direct blow to the Troll Tribes with the death of one of their most famous generals.
There was an old, desolate corner at the extreme left of the inn, where men that had fallen in disgrace would situate themselves. It was a shadowy quarter, where the disgraced would commonly associate themselves with, speaking their tales in extreme silence. And yet, from the darkness came a screeching wail in stark indignation. "The lies!"
Every head turned at the unwelcome, intruding noise as a haggard figure walked out of the shadows, his frail body supported by the walking stick that carried his fragile body forward.
To the mere observer, it was a wonder he had managed to survive the years of solitary living in Lokfar himself, but those who had lived in Lokfar for years recognised him as Bildr, formerly one of Lokfar's most distinguished warriors; honoured for his exploits over three decades ago. Miraculously, he had survived bitter cold and biting axe, unlike the rest of his comrades that had given up their lives on the battlefield. After years of inactivity on the battlefield, his fame and reputation faded. Although none dared address his absence from battle as cowardice, it was clear from the way none wanted to interact with him that his time was over.
Even so, Olaf would not stand mockery. The berserker, although young in age, was not to be trifled with when it came to battle.
"Oh yes?" he jeered, directing his gaze at the limping figure that continued towards him. "And that is a surprise, coming from the coward that rots his days away in a bar!"
"Coward?" the elder's pose turned almost aggressively as he returned Olaf's gaze with steel. " When I was your age, young fool, I too was a warrior. The most remarkable warrior to have ever lived in Lokfar!" he claimed.
"Silence with the lies! Old age had eaten you up," Olaf leered. "You are naught but an old coward wasting the resources of Lokfar. If I had not respect for the laws, thou art would have laid slain by thy blade."
"You boast and gloat!" cried the old warrior. "I challenge you-I challenge you to The Tossing! And I say-your fate shalt be that of I! Old, and disgraced! "
By then the room had fallen deathly silent. It was notable to all the viewers that it was not a mere conflict by any means. The Tossing was a reading of the omens, and usually involved the betting of not just gold pieces but one's future itself. Should the challenger predict correctly the fate of the challenged, the one who lost would be dishonoured, scorned eternally by the berserkers. The fortunes read could decide whether one would revel forever in glory or bath in shame forever.
The Might of Lokfar went crimson in rage, agitated by the taunt of the aged raider. Olaf now stood at his full height, the fire at his back illuminating his armour with a fiery glow, picking out the proud markings on his silver helmet and tanned bracers.
"Your bluster is uncalled for if you dare not accept my challenge!" laughed the warrior at Olaf's indecision. "Why? Dare not accept the taunt of what you call...a coward?"
"Silence!" roared Olaf, more emboldened than ever. 'Your are an envious bag of bones, and I will enjoy your bones crunching against my axe!"
"We shall see," the elder continued, the edges of his withered lips twisting into a sinister smile. Almost ominously, thunder boomed outside the inn as the crowd reluctantly brought forth the sacred tools of The Tossing.
"Start with the damned ritual!" thundered Olaf in his rage. "I want to see that old man dead by thy very blade!"
"Before we proceed, soothsayer," Bildr nodded at a robed elder that had silently trailed his way to the front of the commotion at the persuasion of the crowd. "Is it not customary to lay out the punishments and conditions of the wager? Allow me to start. Should I lose, I offer my head in punishment, to address the challenge I issued and to be the coward that Olaf had addressed me as. And you…?"
"Self-exile!" roared the berserker, dragging over a massive table with his incredible strength. "Should my destiny not be with Lokfar, self-exile and a humiliating death in the peaks shalt be thy path!"
"Very well," nodded the soothsayer in consent, his white wisp of a beard flowing as his head conducted the motion. Chanting a mysterious incantation, the bones on the table vibrated violently, reassembling themselves. A final shudder brought the process to the halt as the bones were promptly swept up and randomly shuffled, nestling hidden in the hands of the soothsayer.
And then it stopped. The berserkers leaned forward, eager to see the results. Such were the stakes of the wager that some had even begun to pass bets on whoever would be proven right.
The next moment it all seemed to grow terribly wrong.
The triumphant smirk the elderly raider displayed, chin raised in mock superiority.
The white cheeks intense in both shock and humiliation, emotions that now played on the confident warrior's face. There was a way his red cheeks now exchanged with the pale white, that showed how his bravado had been dampened so quickly and his pride wounded so severely.
Even the soothsayer had blinked, his leathery eyelids fluttering in surprise.
The Tossing had predicted a long life and a quiet passing.
HE stomped his way out of the inn, his great chest heaving and descending in a motion unusual of the common man. Thoughts were flooding his head, pangs of alarm rang, frustration and anger clouded his brain.
"The lies!" howled the lone warrior that stood in the town centre, relaying his frustrations to the biting cold and furious winds, foes that never ceased their harassment, that refused to desert him.
His howl continued, now more of an agonised cry of rage to the heavens than a mournful wail to describe his current situation. How dare they. He was Olaf, the same Olaf that had led them into battle, the same Olaf that had claimed so much territory for his adoptive tribe, the same Olaf that had achieved untold glories in battle. But his men were naught but cold-blooded fools, a feat of which Olaf could never achieve. Southern Freljordians had their own definition of mercy and the berserker had inherited it from his parents.
Almost immediately, his howls ceased. He unsheathed his axes from his belt buckle, reminiscing the days where his men had joined him in slaughter and conquest, looking up to the mighty warrior as their leader.
He was not crying now. Tears were emotion, and emotion was weakness. To dominate the Freljord, only rage was necessary. Rage ensured survival, constant adaptation, and the adrenaline one felt from the emotion were sufficient to overcome Lokfar.
The fools. He would show them. He was Olaf, the greatest of all berserkers. His name would live on forever, and should he fail in his undertaking of his greatest task yet, he would prove the prophecy wrong by sacrificing his life in his effort to bring down the beast.
His error was true, and it would plague him true for the rest of his exile. But he could be redeemed- after all, honour could be won back. He knew just how. Nobody would ever dare to cross his path ever again, not when the target he intended to slay was the creature that had personally annihilated thousands of men, where ships fell prey to its icy breath and spiked talons. The Sea King itself.
"OLAF?" the inquisitive voice of Sigbjorn, his sworn brother, whispered in a sudden urgency. "Are you mad?"
The berserker sighed, laying his coarse palms on his brother's pauldrons, and addressed him with utmost seriousness.
"Aye,brother. Had there any other way, thy would have tried. But there is only one way I can recover my honour," he vowed, clenching his brother ever tighter.
"Even so! Is there not any other ship you can use save the Valhalla?"
"None. None could possibly survive the maelstroms of the Uncharted Waters. Only the chieftain's ride can conquer the Wrath of the Seas."
An opaque, certain look slowly dawned onto the pupils of Sigbjorn as he fully realised the extent of the berserker's pride. Of course. He had never experienced shame, never grovelled in defeat, never humiliated in front of the entire population. He would literally brave the endless abyss of the ocean simply to salvage a rag of his pride. His eyes flickered, confonted by the dilemma that most troubled him. His brother or the tribe? Sigbjorn was torn between the conflicting emotions of accompanying his sworn brother, or acknowledge Olaf's exile and report his intents to the chief.
In the end his choice was almost obvious.
"BY the Lord Thor himself!" Olaf recited the holy words in surprise when he approached the vessel, already hijacked by the motley crew, commanded by five familiar faces that had once served under the axe of Olaf. "Sigvatr! Lifsteinn! I thought you dead in the Northern campaign!" he exclaimed, embracing the men in an embrace. The years they had spent together waging war against the trolls had done more than just reclamation of lost land: he had forged unbreakable bonds.
"Nay, friend Olaf," came the rumbling voice of a colossal titan that stood towering even before Olaf himself. "Melkofr and I would rather suicide that allow our corpses to be handled by filthy carcasses," he spat, "like that chieftain of yours, Ivar."
The atmosphere turned icy almost immediately as the band of brothers recalled their exile. Renowned for charging into the gaping jaws of death and back, the six had made a name for themselves in the Troll-Berserker battles that had raged on within Lokfar since centuries ago. Known for their rash plans, bold to the point of insanity, the gang struck terror even in the high court of the Trolls itself, which had been divided due to internal strife. None dared deny them of their glory, for every of their expeditions of conquest and pillage ended up in blood, smoke and gore. But whatever the casualties in their squad, there would always be one constant. Six men, wielding bloodied weapons testament to their might, march out glorious from the battlefield.
Perhaps their glory was the very thing that prompted the chieftain to take action. Rivalled by the increasing influence of the Gang of Six that threatened to exceed even his own, the chieftain had exiled four of them under the accusation of insubordination, a decision doubted by all, but questioned by none. A chieftain was a chieftain, and to display disrespect, to doubt his god-bestowed credibility, was to court death. Ivar Osmond had a long stream of criminal investigations leading to his name, including murder and assassination of political opponents, wasteful campaigns and even usurping the throne.
"The talk about Ivar is wasted," growled Sigvatr, his cowled head sinister as ever. Similar to Olaf, he had been bred in the milder Avarosan lands, and had fled to Lokfar due to the constant pillaging of rival tribes. Where traditional berserkers excelled at hand-to-hand combat, his nimble body and agile limbs proved more suitable to the rapid, slinging action of the bow and arrow that he so expertly wielded. It was said that with all his expertise, he had never missed a shot. Somehow, shameful of his thinner limbs and more slender build, he had hooded himself in a desperate attempt to avoid the attention drawn to him as a distinct foreigner, for possessing the looks berserkers never did. "Talk about the fool will lead to anything but fruition. Olaf, Ivar is naught but a coward. He detests opposition, and silences the crowd with achievements in battles he did not even partake. During your greatest moment of desperation, he only chose to remain silent, to condemn you to the peaks. If so vile was he, thou art deserve the Valhalla more then he ever should."
The Valhalla. The finest work of art in all of the Freljord, pride of the berserkers and the Northern tribes alike. No pounding fists of the ocean could puncture the unbreakable wood, and no wave could possibly engulf the greatest longboat of them all. Armed with cannon, axe and grit alike, no enemy proved a threat when sailing with the most nefarious berserkers of them all, whose reputation preceded their names. Sculpted to celebrate victory for the first chieftain Ragnarr, it had been named after his feats and achievements. Surprising sturdy, it had stood resilient to the waves that claimed ships centuries younger than itself.
The goliath, Gragas, had already began to ascend the ladder that led to the longboat, taking his position at the sea serpent's figurehead that decorated all longboats. Sigvatr's sharp eyes had situated themselves in the crow's nest of the mast, with companionship of his bow and arrow. The already erected mast's sails unfolded in the blizzard that always accompanied the perilous waters of Lokfar. The pirates under Gragas' command took their respective positions in the ornately carved shields at the sides of the hull.
"Full speed ahead!" ordered the commanding voice of Gragas as the mighty longboat surged forward in the swelling water, setting sail on its voyage that would prove the ultimate test of strength.
A DUO had situated themselves far from the seafarers that rejoiced in the hull. Standing near the tail at stern, they were both ironically the mightiest warriors on board the Valhalla. Contrary to Olaf's expectations, the pirates that accompanied them voiced no questions about the recklessness of their expedition or fear of the great unknown. Although their palms were numb from the biting cold and the upcoming blizzard that had gathered at the horizon, their hold on the oars had not once faltered.
He remembered still, the snide remarks of Bildr. The insolent fool that had scoffed at his accomplishments, insulted him and had ultimately, caused his exile. He hadn't felt hatred for a long time now. Berserkers had no time to exact their revenge and pillage the homes of their kind, especially when petty squabbles usually ended up with the chieftain punishing both households.
His honour could be won back, true-there was the case where an occasional berserker would prove his worth by committing a feat beyond those of common men. The last such deed had been centuries past, where an exiled warrior had slaughtered hordes of incoming trolls that threatened Lokfar.
Despite his promises, Olaf was still in doubt. The serpent was said to possess and create at its will not only the furious maelstroms that raged around it, but also the electrical charges it was capable of emitting. Both abilities are nothing short of devastating. An incoming ship hit by the fearsome projectile would find itself sinking in seconds. Apart from that, its ivory carapace, believed by Lokfarians to be forged from pure ice itself, could deflect any weapons. Easily asserting itself as a top hunter, it was even terrestrial, seen basking on land. One could easily describe it as an apex predator.
Gragas sighed, viewing the man before him that gazed out at the treacherous plain of blue the Valhalla had left behind. The turbulent waters crashed against the hull of the Valhalla, almost seeming to oppose its journey, to stop the men on board from venturing forth to their imminent deaths. There was nothing the raiders had not experienced, although the seafaring weather was one of the worst today. The five men did not know what Olaf had intended to do after slaying the Frost Serpent, but had their own individual doubts about whether this was about reclamation of glory, or running back once again to become the lapdog of Ivar Osmond.
STORMS continued to rage around the ship, attempting to drag the mighty vessel to the abyssal depths. The ocean was different now. Much to their surprise, the choppy waters had subsided, giving way to calm seas, as if the very water was commanded by the will of the Frost Serpent. The tempest, however, was in contrast, increasing its intensity the nearer the Valhalla approached the Forbidden Seas, the northernmost tip of Runeterra.
As they further approached, they fully viewed the destruction the sea beast had wrought. Wreckages floated, debris clouded the formerly pristine clear surface of the ocean. Several of the crew on board had began sharpening their weapons, roughly crafted blades that were either forged out of rock or bronze. The sea gradually gave way to a narrower strip surrounded on both sides by towering ivory landmasses that the crew described as 'icebergs". Although not enormous to the point of an island, the unnerving structures dotted the path of the Valhalla, proving as another obstacle they were required to conquer.
THE dreaded creature bared its fangs, observing the dozens of men on board the magnificent vessel. Another feast, it thought as its serpentine eyes glittered, continuing to observe atop the iceberg as the first crackle of electricity fizzed in its throat. A mere electrical bolt would have sufficed to sink that pathetic ship they travelled in, it knew, but it was hungry. When it first migrated to this fearsome stretch of water, it had sunk countless ships. Natural aggression had ensured that, and its fiercely territorial nature had not aided in the sparing of lives as well. But it had grown to adapt. The only ships that passed its land, it knew, were those occasional fishermen that had wandered too far off their domain. It had devoured quite a few of them, but the formerly large ships that carried hundreds, the ones which he truly relished, had never approached after he had sank a particularly large convoy, falling upon the helpless mates.
It continued creeping on its four muscled legs, observing with its snaking, hooded neck the ship that had docked on an island. His island. It was where it had situated itself. All the better then. It would save it the trouble of consuming them in the water. How inconvenient.
"MEN!" Olaf commanded. "I know you have no attachments to me whatsoever, but the serpent is a beast of unmatched wit and power. Should any of you choose to back out now, it is perfectly understandable." Olaf eyed the ranks of men before him, each of them determined and handling their weapons. "I cannot promise your lives," Olaf continued,"but what I can promise is the eternal glory your names will carry if we partake this dreadful expedition and kill the Frost Serpent!"
"Arr!" the pirates raised their weapons in agreement.
"Very well," Olaf said pridefully, smiling upon his warriors. "Today, we fight. None of us are inferior. We fight for no one but ourselves. Today, we reclaim our glory!"
"Arrr!" the pirates cheered once more, following their leaders that had aligned themselves parallel to the cave that was the Frost Serpent's Lair.
"To action!" Olaf roared, charging towards the cave of the dreaded beast.
The next moment it seemed to go terribly wrong.
The beast seemed to have been informed of their visit. It snaked out of the cavern, the vicious quadruped leviathan that had terrified so many, and consumed even more. Stamping the ice and sending splinters of it all around itself, it roared, a bloodcurdling scream of rage. The crew let out cries of fear as the colossal beast bared its razor sharp fangs, its shell crackling with barely controlled electricity. Olaf, however, only laughed at the beast, refusing to succumb to terror.
"So this is how big you are?" Olaf said, gloating. "I expected you to be two times bigger! Men-charge!"
At that command, the men overcame their fear, charging headfirst into combat.
The beast reared his head back, and let a burst of electricity emit from his throat, sending the deadly projectile into the men. The target caught screamed, electrocuted to a burning crisp, and all those caught in the radius of the explosion fell backward at the force of the projectile.
Olaf continued alongside his companions, each of them surrounding the leviathan from different points. Sigvatr leapt adroitly, avoiding the reptile's deadly talons that raked at the air beside him and firing arrows that stuck limply in the beast's thick hide, quivering. Gragas hacked at the beast with his knuckles, bruising it but not causing any significant damage. Growling in annoyance, the beast flicked out its deadly tail, catching Gragas fully on the stomach and sending him rolling away in the impact.
Lifsteinn and Olaf had taken to the the head of the beast, assaulting the flabby throat of the beast with deadly clubbing motions from their axes. The leviathan screamed in pain, its electrical conductivity failing.
But it was not without casualties.
With every passing moment, the beast's claws would scythe at unfortunate victims, crippling and killing them with extreme brutality. By then, with its ability to send forth electricity hindered, it was obvious to the beast this was not a normal fight by any means. The remaining pirates had came with nets, coiling the thick strands over the leviathan's scaly body and tying it down. Roaring, the beast realised its assailant's wicked intent.
It was enraged now. No being had ever dealt such bodily damage to it, whatever its purposes. If he did not harness his full power, it was likely he would not survive this onslaught.
Upon seeing the beast bow its head, as if beaten into willing submission, the pirates cheered, while the experienced warriors walked around the beast with suspicion.
"Is it dead?" asked the ever-suspecting Lifsteinn.
"Aye, my friend, dead as a log. Now, let me carve off its...Arrggghhhh!"
"SIGBJORN!"
And with that, Olaf watched on as his best friend and truest companion died, electrocuted to a burning corpse by the beast he presumed dead. The Frost Serpent was not dead. On the contrary, it was alive and angrier than ever, fighting with a renewed frenzy. Electricity covered its carapace like a shroud, electrocuting those that dared come near. Flinging about its tail, any pirate that had overextended their positions found themselves welcomed by a battering ram that hammered into their faces, sending them flying into the ice.
He could not care about them now, the men that catapulted into the air due to the immense force of the creature. He could not see the bright crimson droplets that had splattered over his face, that had clouded the previous pristine clear surface of the ice. He could only see a mangled corpse, blackened, with smoke still rising from it.
His cousin was not dead. No. Never. It couldn't be. This was not how it was supposed to end. The expedition was supposed to end in fame and glory; it was supposed to bring his members wealth and reputation. it was supposed to end with six men embracing each other. Not like this. Not with casualties. This was not how it was supposed to be. The corpse couldn't be his brother. It couldn't be. It had to be some trick, some optical illusion the beast had played on his eyes. His brother couldn't be dead.
Yet it was, the opaque, lifeless orbs of white that returned Olaf's gaze. It was Sigbjorn, the companion that had accompanied him wherever he went, whatever he did. his true frind that had never abandoned him, never forsaken him, never despised on him or mocked him. The charred, dead man was Sigbjorn, his best friend and true Brother. An uncontrollable feeling surged through Olaf, sending him trembling.
"Olaf!"
He heard the familiarly annoying voice as a pair of gloved hands grabbed his shoulders, ripping him away from his previous position. A claw scratched at what would have been his body if not for Lifsteinn's swift intervention. Gragas attacked, ramming the beast's vulnerable neck with his colossal bulk. Classic military strategy. Distract the enemy on the left and they will never see what was coming from the right.
The beast retreated temporarily in surprise, but quickly went on the offensive again upon realising the strength of the opposition. Gragas alone, along with Sigvatr and Melkofr apart from Lifsteinn that was dragging Olaf to safety.
"Olaf! Wake up!"
There it was again, that annoying voice. Lifsteinn, he though uncaringly to himself. Why couldn't he just shut up and leave him alone with his brother?
His brother.
"Sigbjorn!" roared Olaf with renewed strength as he tore out, wrenching himself free of Lifsteinn's grip. He could spot him still in the distance, a burnt speck in the clear white. No one would take him away from him again. He would not lose his brother a second time.
Lifsteinn watched in horror as his comrade charged. What the **** was he thinking? Lifsteinn thought desperately to himself as he launched in pursuit of Olaf. He continued his chase, watching as Olaf clumsily manoeuvred through the beast that guarded the corpse, colliding with its limbs in his charge. Angered, the beast flung Gragas off like a rag doll, rammed its entire head into his body. He landed on the ice as a faint cracking sound was heard. Gragas rolled over and lay still.
With Gragas unconscious, the beast directed its full attention onto the duo that was running. Their motives were unknown, but it recognised the bearded, blonde-haired warrior as "Olaf". That was what they hailed him as. What had left him his greatest impression, however, was the mark his twin axes had left on his neck.
A flailing tail caught Olaf directly in the chest, ramming into him and sending him staggering at the massive force exerted. A second more powerful blow deliberately aimed at his head sent him falling onto his knees, and yet he offered no retaliation, no counter attack. Nothing. His entire concentration was devoted on the dead man that laid a few meters away from him. A third strike by the beast's deadly claws, the most forceful yet, raked deep into his chest and sent him sprawling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it through his vision, rearing its head in triumph, poised to deliver the final blow as its gaping maw, outstretched, extended towards him and ready to enjoy the meal.
Olaf smiled and closed his eyes.
