A Berserk/Skyrim crossover scenario:

Promise of an End to the Struggle

...

"Just one word. Just say, you´ll give your daughter as a sacrifice..."

The fat cockroach sticking to a wall trumpeted.

"...and that brand will appear on her body..."

The little weird bug snickered while flying among the white marble stairs and monuments of the realm.

"...she will become the devils´ property."

The succubus nearly purred from her position to the left on top of an inverted structure.

While the girl trembled in her thin sleeping dress, both the white cloth and her black curls becoming drenched in sweat because of the fear, trapped between the occult rune burned into the air in front of her and the chasm behind her which led to a maelstrom of evil souls some call Hell.

"Say it!..." Void of the Godhand booms in his grotesque form, still without opening his mouth, but easily cutting through the moaning of tormented souls arising from the hellish ocean they were all gazing at. "...One word ... just one word." The cut up head of a demon slug, whom their tempting whispers were directed at, received them loud and clear and confronted with his own mortality after his regenerating body had been smashed, cut, shot and burned to pieces by the accursed sacrifice of a swordsman, a human! at that, he was swallowed by despair at the sight of his imminent future. Of his once giant, many limbed body that was level with the tops of trees only a face remains. Yet again the Hand´s members dangled the treat of salvation in front of him. Again the price would be paid in the iron reeking blood and soft flesh of his family. And just like back then he was overcome with the desire of escape. All was better than how it is now, no matter the consequences, no matter the price, if he could just escape once again all would be well.

Could it be called a miracle then? That when the demons tear filled eye came to reflect more than his future, when it came to see once again the fearful and begging face of his own flesh and blood, angel like in his eyes, "...father..." from between small rosy lips this single word escaped and the sight of Hell was eclipsed by that of better times, that the threat of destiny, woven in the deepest dephts of the Not-Here and Not-There but Here and There, was denied?

Solemn, almost, the five "Angels" stood witnessing their Apostles now inevitable fall. Already the inmates of Hell were crawling towards them. Like a giant snake that rears its head from the muddy waters of a swamp, a column of corpse looking souls, crawling over each other like ants, had grown from the vortex of souls to which the realm of the God Hand opens up. A serpent of death, twenty humanoid shades thick and longer than a mortal can count, all shades supporting each other or crawling across another often using each other as ladders, stretches towards the structures the Demon Appointing Ceremony had not taken place.

Faster than fought imaginable they shades of the dead had reached the Counts remaining body, they clawed and began to reap his souls by ripping apart his skin. The Counts last sight was of his frozen in shock daughter which spared him from the sight of Vargas disfigured face being at the forefront of the horde. Soon the Counts soul was ripped from his shell of flesh and dragged to Hell by the damned, leaving behind only a bloody splotch of flesh and his death wailings putting any banshee to shame.

Transfixed by the horrid sight, Guts failed to notice the smaller corpses made tongue of shades gripping his leg with tens of arms, even their murmurs of "Sacrifice! Sacrifice!" could not prevent the small fairy being alerted by the swordsman roar of pain and fear as he was hoisted into the air, his legs caught in the vice like grip of the dead which had been attracted by the brand on his neck. Already Puck was racing after him in desperation. He did not know what he should do to help him, but this instinct born out of loyalty to this human urged him on. The struggler in the meantime had given up the struggle, already was his battered body not able to contest the host of shades dragging him. Yet he was even now aware of his ultimate goal, his hunt not finished, the receding back of God Hand Femto so sweet a target that even with the reapers of Hell at his heels he loaded the canon within his prosthetic and took his shot.

A cloud of flame and ashes shot from the wrist, the cannonball racing unhindered for the black cape-winged spectre that haunts his memories, all for naught, for because the cannonball could rend spectral flesh and bones the human weapon shattered on the telekinetic field surrounding the spirit. But another unforeseen but perhaps still intended result arouse from this action born in a moment of despair. The recoil of the cannon shot had ploughed Guts right through the wailing shades shackling his legs. Now without anything holding him the black swordsman fell through free space towards the waiting maws and claws of Hell´s inmates below. Undeterred the little pixie raced after him, but unhearing of the little ones pleading shouts, Guts last sight from his lone eye was of the five God Hand members throwing him glances as they retreated, the slated crimson orbs of Griffiths eyes burning themselves inside his skull.

That was before the very world and space around him shifted and rippled. Like the waves in a pond the space seemed to bend to accommodate an injection into the sum of spacial perception around him. Yet it did not carry any force behind the wave. The spectres of the dead were stretched into unimaginable forms, elongated yet losing nothing of their mass but their relative position to himself did not change. He saw his own left bend at angles a piece of steel should never be able to be and the annoying fairy suddenly had a twin stuck to him.

He did not have the chance to even truly comprehend what happened, when putrid air and corpse stench greeted him in advance to a great maw filled with sword teeth suddenly closing around him and the luminous insect, plunging them into foul darkness in a single bite.

The next sight of the black swordsman´s eye was an unusual one. Blinded by a strong light the only thing he can see is a grey and pointy eared face by looms over him, red eyes giving off a crimson shine like rubies and peering into his own. He tries to move, but fear overtakes him when he finds himself unable to even feel the rest of his body. Suddenly the face leans back out of sight.

"Master,..." a female voice calls out beside him. "...he is the right one, are we sure we got everything?" only to be answered by a grumbling voice from the far back. "Yes, yes. Finished already are you? Well then prepare him and yourself for the transition already. ... Unless you want to become my specimen, that is? The Lady lets me have so few chances to study the matter. Stop wasting my time otherwise. I am just going to pre-configure the aurbical entropy scale programme for the inter-kalpic and trans-planar shifting after the time-stream submersion and then enter diapause myself. Go on already."

The female voice sighs in exasperation and answers acknowledges the other voice just with a short "Yes, master." before the grey face once again looks down at him, telling him in a more cheery tone, "Goodbye! Until we meet again."

And he blacks out again.

When he comes to again, he once again is not master of his own fate, though this time he could at least struggle. Though futile as it turns out and he soon seizes trying to dislodge himself from the impossible large claws of the bird of prey carrying him with a vice like grip after no trace of a ground beneath him but just an everlasting ocean of clouds. While a storm rages around them, he can see above them a vast darkness and around him air so frigid he feared to drown because of the water in his lungs.

"Struggler, ... seek me out where truth dwells (Atmora = land of truth), that is if you wish to break the gears of doom, having your soul to fall into the preordained in between life abode, the Under-Halls, which some call Hell! Filled to the seams with the imbeciles which did not make it into Sovngarde."

Before he can even think of answering the bird, who had a surprisingly feminine voice he has to mentally add, the grip holding opens, giving him up to the storm and sending him falling once again. He tries to cry out, in vain for he falls into unconsciousness again and he feels he should cry out about that as well, as he feels darkness creeping into his mind.

Next, he will awaken among prisoners...