Hello crazy, beautiful world, the Scribe has arrived. As promised, I finally got around to publishing the start to my second ever story, another crossover. This time, between one of my favourite(and underappreciated IMO) games of all time and Avatar the Last Airbender. It was a combo that to me at least, was a no brainer, yet I was somewhat disappointed with the results when looking for stories, so it's up to me then.

Now, some disclaimers. This is a pilot/experiment. My time and focus is still going to be on AGC, so updates are going to be much more sparse compared to that story. I didn't want to invest too much time into something new if no one is going to read it. As popular as ATLA is, FH doesn't have much online fandom presence, creatively speaking anyway. So I wanted to get this two part chapter out to have some fun writing something different and gauge reader interest. Depending on your guy's response, I'll decide on how soon I'll update this story. So we'll see.

Next, a couple things about the story's content. This story is going to be ATLA combined with For Honor, so that means a bump up in rating compared to the show. It's not going to dive right into the angsty pits of darkness, but it's going to be a little more adult, with violence and general nastiness associated with war. Hence the M rating. If you think I'm being too careful, look up some of the game's executions, then get back to me.

Now, I should clear up the timeline. For Honor wise, this will be starting in between Year 3 and 4, a while after Season 12: Sun Da and the destruction of Qiang Pass and several months before Season 13: Hope and the Treaty of Wyverndale. On ATLA's side, it's going to be a couple weeks before the first episode. Good? Good.

Next topic, I'm going to be trying something concerning translation. I, am not a polyglot, let alone on ancient languages like Latin and stuff and Google translate is only so accurate (not really). Thus, I'm going to be doing what I did with AGC, where stuff spoken in things other than English will be denoted with {} brackets. That being said, there will be something missing if I write the For Honor combat lines in English. Thus, those lines will be in bold and translated at the end of the chapter. Said translations will be lifted straight from the For Honor wiki, so take any inaccuracies up with Ubisoft. Let me know if this system works.

Finally, For Honor is owned by Ubisoft and Avatar the Last Airbender was made by Michael Dante DiMartino, Bryan Konietzko and Viacom, not me. If I did, I'd give Highlander and Jormungandr the reworks they deserve and made sure the ATLA movie never happened.

Now, let us sail forth.

"This means I am speaking"

'This mean I am thinking'

*This is a sound effect*

This means this is a flashback

This means it is a combat line from the game in the speaker's language

"{This means someone is speaking in their native language, latin, japanese, etc}"

For Balance, For Honor

Honor. Such a simple word. One that has many meanings, to many different people. One may say that it is a reward, a boon for chivalrous deeds. Another may say that it is the worth of a man's life, so that when it comes to an end, he may be remembered forever. Men earn honor. Lose honor. Fight…die…kill, for honor.

But to truly comprehend what it means to have honor, one must learn from the legends of the past, from the tales of mighty warriors, terrible evils and the greatest battles that will ever be.

This is one of those legends.

Our story begins long ago, in a distant land beyond the lines of any map. Much like our world, it was home to four nations. In the west under the flaming mouth of Mount Ignis was the plains of Ashfeld, dominion of the Knights, steel plated crusaders pressed into service of their realm, led by the largest of the legions, the Iron Legion. A martial order of soldiers who waged war for glory, their people and their lords.

Dwelling in the frozen wastes of the North was the realm of Valkenheim. A frigid range of mountains and forests covered in perpetual winter, it was home to the Viking clans. Tribes of rugged people, hardened by the harshness of their home, they valued strength as much as community to overcome any adversity. The greatest clan of them all, the Warborn were said to be the strongest warriors alive.

To the East was a great swamp, the Myre, a lush and verdant jungle filled with natural wonders, with just as many dangers. Hidden amongst the tree and marshes was the Dawn Empire, the home of the Samurai. Champions of the people who committed themselves to a rigid warrior code, where dishonor was punishable by death.

Finally, across the desert and mountains in the South were the Wastes, the uninhabitable home of a former empire. Remnants of a great dynasty laid to ruin through centuries of civil war and infighting until only one province remained. Now the Wu Lin reigned over the scraps, a league of disciplined martial artists, masters of techniques that the many would consider…otherworldly.

Four nations, four peoples. As different from each other as the four elements that you hold so dear.

Naturally, where there is difference, there is distrust. Where there is distrust, there will be treachery which leads to bloodshed. No one knows who made the first blow, nor can anyone remember why. Malice? Greed? Or desperation? The truth will be forever lost to the ages. The only thing that is certain is what came next, a thousand years of unending war. A millennia of conflict culminating in the creation of the greatest warriors, nay, the greatest heroes the world had ever known.

Eventually, there was a time of peace. Were they tired of the killing? Did they finally see the bodies of their enemies and kin lying at their feet? We will never know. For a hundred years, they stayed behind their borders, as they tried to pick up the pieces of their history, for what good it did them.

It would have been foolish to believe that it would last forever. By the machinations of a warlord in armor of blackest pitch, the land of Heathmoor was once again thrown into chaos and death. The people were doomed to another age of endless war.

Or at least they would have. If not for that fateful day...

Happvad. A small territory on the outer reaches of Valkenheim towards the centre of the continent. A location of high strategic value all for one reason, the River Fort. Built upon the foundations of an old fishing outpost, the stronghold overlooked one of the only accessible waterways into the heart of the Viking lands, most of the other routes too treacherous due to the sheer cliff faces and icebergs surrounding them. Whoever controlled the fort, controlled the flow of ships carrying troops and supplies in and out of the North, deeming it a priority target.

Normally, the Warborn would have little trouble repelling an incoming siege from where they were stationed. The same position on the cliffs overtop of the estuary that marked it as a target made it extremely difficult for attacking armies to get close and its catapults and ballistae could be brought to bear on any incoming ships.

This time however, the fort was being besieged not by one, not two, but THREE invading armies. In a bizarre turn of events, the Iron Legion, Dawn Empire and the Wu Lin all decided to attack the same Warborn fortification on the exact same day. The bay was flooded with ships from all three factions as the three attacking forces clashed with each other, all the while the Warborn struggled to decide on which enemy to repel.

"{Storm them! To the gate!}" A latin battlecry was thrown out amongst the chaos, goading a swarm of Iron Legion footsoldiers into a echoing roar as they burst through the snow covered trees from the west.

Running alongside the tide of green and yellow was a man dressed in full plate armor and hauberk, covered with royal blue fabric. The silver plated metal was accentuated with contrasting gold inlay and studs, the noonday sun glinting off the winged visor of his helmet with the metal laurel on top.

Clutched in his hand was his longsword, a robust blade with a hint of elegance thanks to the vine-patterned overlay in the steel stemming from the twisted metal crossguard and hilt. It was slick with blood, freshly spilled and it would shed more this day.

The soldiers charged, filled with courage and vigor, For they had their commander, their Warden, by their side. The Vikings atop the stone and log battlements began volleying spears and arrows down upon the invaders, the deadly missiles picking off a few men before they raised their heater shields.

The Warden dove behind a boulder, hearing arrows whistling over his head.

"{Archers, give me cover! Soldiers, get the ladders. I'll clear the battlements!}" He ordered, gripping his longsword by the guard and jumping out from cover, bolting as fast as he could to the wall.

He spotted a Viking point his way, signalling a group of archers to aim their bows at him. Gritting his teeth, he pumped his legs, running as fast as his armoured body would allow as some arrows flew past him, followed immediately by some coming from his troops behind him, forcing the defenders to take cover. With the assistance from his troops, the Warden pressed himself against the wall below the battlements.

Setting his longsword aside, he reached into the pouch on his hip, retrieving a flash grenade and loop of firesteel and flint.

*Crack!* He instinctively jumped to the side as a stone block smashed on the ground to his left. Glancing up, he swore as a couple of the defenders dropped an assortment of bricks and rocks from overtop. He pressed himself closer to the wall, narrowly getting his head smashed by the falling masonry as his gloved hands fumbled with his ignition devices.

He struck them together over the grenade's charcloth fuse, sparking them twice before it finally lit. Clutching the metal orb in his hands, he counted down to three, then hurled it straight up into the air above him and quickly turned his face away.

*PASHOOM!* The grenade burst, immediately followed up with the pained and startled cries of the enemies on the rampart, stunned by the flash of the device.

"{Ladders, now!}" He called out, his squad taking the opportunity he created to run across the clearing, a couple carrying a wooden ladder on their shoulders. Following his lead, they pressed themselves against the wall with their shields raised and the ladder was leaned against the stone.

A few men held the base of the ladder as their leader grabbed his longsword and started climbing. Step by step he rose, thanking that the defenders were still recovering from the flash grenade. Not until he had hoisted himself to the top and over the edge did they notice, yelling in surprise as the small group of troops in red gambesons and helmets drew their swords while the archers, dressed in lighter leather armor, raised their bows again.

He wouldn't give them the chance to fire. Flipping his longsword over his head, he rushed forward, bringing his blade down over the first man before he could bring his own up to bear, immediately following up with a pommel strike in the eye of the second man, killing both instantly.

Hearing the creaking of bow strings, he swung his guard across the face of the third, spinning him around so he could grab him from behind, pulling him the way of the incoming arrows, the poor man screaming as his allies unintentionally shot him in multiple places. He pushed his improvised shield into the closest of the archers, throwing both of them off the edge of the battlements. He brandished his longsword again as he stepped closer.

With the danger too close for comfort and their ranged weapons, the remaining archers unsheathed their daggers, only to immediately get batted aside by the heavier blade in a spinning horizontal slash, cleaving through both of them one after the other with the wet sound of the tearing of flesh and leather.

Taking a second to catch his breath, the Warden spied a wooden lever at the end of the railing, the gate winch. Stepping over, he wrapped his hands around it and grunted as he pulled it down. With a low groan, the thick wooden doors creaked open, eliciting a triumphant cry from the Knights below as they charged through the opening into the courtyard, promptly engaging the Vikings within while others brought more ladders to climb the overwatch rampart.

Now they just needed to capture the keep to gain access to the catapults, then they could eliminate the remaining two armies before they arrived at the fort. But in order to do that, they would need more sword-hands.

The Warden lifted his gaze to the forest from which he and his men charged, expecting a contingent of additional troops to arrive from the South, as was the plan.

Only to be met with the sight of the now empty wilderness, making him frown.

"{Where are those reinforcements?!}"

"{Hold the line!}" A Knight captain commanded his men, whose shields and blades clashed against those of their enemy, a platoon of Samurai. They had been on their way to reinforce the primary forces when they were ambushed by the blue foe approaching from the Southern shore.

*Fwish!* A blur flew through the air, soaring over the crowd.

He looked up.

A silhouette blotted out the sun.

A high pitch warble pierced the air.

*Thump!* The figure landed deftly behind the Knight's line, immediately followed by the captain's head falling onto the snow, then his body.

The figure, a woman, was dressed in a set of sea green, form fitting, plated, wooden armor, held together with silk cords and shining brass studs overtop a shirt and cloth pants. Her brown eyes peeked out from above her facemask and below the helmet encompassing her head. Affixed on the top was a medallion in the shape of two gold and jade koi fish, circling each other in unison. Tied to the sash on her waist were two sheathes, one for the shorter wakizashi blade on the back and the second on her left hip, currently unoccupied.

Held in a reverse grip was her katana, a black blade with a wavering wave of white along the honed edge with a round guard and pommel, accentuated with gold at the start of the blade, the middle of the grip and on the very end of the handle.

"{Captain, no!}"

"{Get her!}"

"{Kill the Orochi!}" Four of the Ashfeld troops broke from their formation behind her and charged, swords raised.

In a blur of motion, the Samurai spun on her toes, seamlessly throwing an upwards slash of her sword, slicing across the neck of the first man. As he fell, she immediately met the second man with a pommel strike to the exposed portion of his face, breaking his nose with a dull crack as she followed up by cutting diagonally down his collarbone. Ducking to avoid another soldier's incoming sword, she stabbed the end of her blade into his throat, then spun once more, pulling it back out and performed a horizontal, two handed strike against the next one's chest, all in one motion.

The bodies fell to the ground, the noise attracting the attention of the rest of the Knights. One look at their dead comrades, commanding officer and the warrior that slew them all was enough for them to start breaking from their formation and run from the direction which they came, some getting slain by the wooden plated Samurai soldiers as they tried to disengage.

The Orochi gave a small wave. Some of her troops separated from the group and ran swiftly into the trees after their quarry. If the survivors managed to alert the rest of the Legion of their position, they would lose their opportunity to catch them and the other armies off guard.

With a deft flick of the wrist, she shook some of the blood from her blade upon the white ground before returning it to her saya, the guard nestling in with a click.

"{What a mess this has become!}" She sighed as she started following the remainder of her forces along the ridge, proceeding with the orders of her commander, cutting off the other invader's reinforcements in surprise attacks before assaulting the fort from the North side. It was an improvised strategy, as they hadn't accounted for the arrival of the Iron Legion and the Wu Lin. Regardless of whether it was the enemy's plan all along or sheer coincidence, the idea was for them to use the chaos to turn the battle in their favour.

They will be the ones left standing. They will be the ones to invade Valkenheim. And they will be the ones to end the Viking scourge, once and for all.

They will succeed, or die trying.

This, she swore.

At the front of the River Fort, overlooking the water way as the battling ships crashed against the rocky cliffs, icebergs or themselves, was the shipyard. Constructed atop the ledge, it was the most outwards fortification in the Fort, long, tattered banners flapping against the wind while the wooden figurehead of a great horned dragon loomed over yonder. An ingenious form of architecture, the shipyard had two sets of cranes on either side that would hoist up Viking ships in need of repair, lifting them high above the water to the dock. There, they could be repaired and maintained either on the deck level with the top floor, or the bottom of the hull on balconies on the edge.

Two longships were hanging on the cranes, their masts and sails lowered, awaiting the attention of their craftsmen as they lightly swung over the drop down to the icy waters and stone crags below.

With how high the shipyard was and how sheer its wooden and stone walls, it was the perfect position for the Warborn archers to fire upon the enemy, completely unassailable.

To most, that is.

The archers kept firing at the Knights along the coast, blissfully unaware of the single man below, slowly climbing the frozen rock face. He shivered slightly in the cold, his red and orange robes doing little against the elements.

His clothed slippers barely held in the imperfections of the rock, pebbles dislodging under their soles. His lean, yet muscled arms flexed, the red characters on his forearms and peaking out from under his silver combat bracers stretched as his bare hands claimed purchase on another outcropping.

His necklace of plum sized prayer beads hung off his neck under his shaven face, thin and angular. He wore another sash across his forehead and just under his scalp which was marked with six dot tattoos. The sash itself was held in place by a silver headpiece, emblazoned with a crest of yin and yang.

Secured on his back was a Bo staff, as long as he was tall, a wooden rod coloured with red stripes and the ends tipped with steel prongs.

The man looked up from his hands and looked for his next perch, grimacing when the only option nearby was the top of a whittled log, acting as an exterior support beam underneath the overhanging platform, several feet above him to his right.

Breathing in through his nose, he hung down from his current spot and planted his legs on either side of the wall. He bounced once. Twice.

"Hup!" He shot upwards, the cold wind pushing down on him as he ascended, slowing down until he hung in the air. His hands shot out and latched onto the wooden tip just as he began to fall back down, making him clutch the lumber, giving out a small hiss at the feeling of the splinters digging into his fingers.

"{Huh? What was that?}"

He looked up. The wooden boards of the platform creaked under the weight of a Viking lookout.

His heart grew heavy with the knowledge of what he was about to do. It spat in the face of everything he once stood for.

But he had crossed that line a long time ago.

Turning himself over on the beam so he was facing away from the wall, he tensed his body once more and leapt for the overhangs support board. In one fluid movement, he grabbed on and let his inertia carry his legs forward and up, hooking them over the lip of the platform, then releasing his grip, his stomach churning as he flipped up and shot past the scaffolding. At the apex of his leap, he clutched onto an overhanging plank, where he hung in midair in front of the stunned lookout.

"{My apologies!}" He greeted, then immediately swung his legs and delivered a kick right under the bearded man's chin, breaking his jaw and sending him crashing into a pile of barrels and crates. Swinging again, he threw himself onto the platform, finally reaching his climb's summit.

"{What the Hel?!}"

"{How did someone get up here?!}" Alarmed voices accompanied with urgent footsteps hitting off the wooden boards of the upper floor, prompting the monk to unhook his staff, just as three more archers ran down the stairs, who immediately drew their bows upon noticing him.

Taking the initiative, he dashed forward, pivoting on his toes and bringing his staff up to slam down on the head of the man closest to him, giving a resounding thump to the top of his skull and making him crumple. His ear twitched at the sound of bowstrings and he immediately ducked under one arrow, then sprung into the air from his low stance, striking both men across the face with a flying kick each. Landing between them, he swung his weapon again, hitting the man on his left in the stomach, making him gasp and bend over just to receive another hit in the face with the end of the stick, knocking him out cold.

A rasp of steel hissed behind the monk, making him bend his torso out of the way of the other man's dagger thrust and immediately grabbed onto his arm, twisting his wrist and making him drop his weapon before giving him an elbow to his nose.

*CRACK!* Cartilage broke under bone. The man stumbled back, screaming in pain.

The monk spun and reeled back his fist. "Deeyah!" He whooped, punching his opponent in the chest, feeling ribs crack as he shot back and crashed against the stone wall behind him, slumping to the ground.

Taking a moment to collect himself, the Shaolin let the adrenaline coursing through his veins cool and eventually disperse. With bated breath, he approached each of his opponents one at a time, putting his fingers to their necks and only after he did so to the fourth and last one did he let it out in relief.

They were still alive. It wouldn't spare his soul from the weight of his previous actions and he very well might have to end another life soon this day, but it was a consolation nonetheless. He never chose this path, but it was one he must take.

Satisfied, he stood up.

He had a job to do.

Stepping over to the various containers of supplies, he rummaged through until he found what he was looking for, a long and thick bundle of rope.

He tied it to a support pillar, then carried the other end to the platform opposite to the one he entered. Bringing his free hand to his mouth he let out a high, shrill whistle, the sound insignificant and ignored to anyone nearby over the din and clamor of battle.

With one exception.

From around the bend of the cliffs floated a small junk, oars silently pushing it towards the fortress wall. After a few tentative moments, it reached the bottom of the hanging shipyard and waited.

The Shaolin hefted the rope off his shoulder and dropped it over the side, letting it uncoil as it tumbled down the wall until it hit the deck of the ship below. After it was properly secured, soldiers clad in purple, lamellar armor began to scale the wall, while he grimly stood watch.

With this victory, the dynasty would be one step closer to winning the war. Then everything will be as it should.

At least that's what he told himself.

Much like a great beast, the River Fort had its heart. It's centre, the final battlement, the possession of which determines the victor of the battle.

The inner keep, the defender's home away from home, an amalgamation of sprawling towers and broad halls where the Viking's feast, sleep and the absolute last line of defence. It was separated from the rest of the stronghold by towering cobblestone and wooden walls adorned with flags and round shields bearing the markings of the Viking clans banded in partnership in defending this land.

Overlooking the field where the Ashfeld and the Myre foot soldiers clashed was the central rampart, a raised platform protected by the aforementioned walls as well as a moat filled with water and wooden stakes, both of which ran red with the muddled blood of Viking, Samurai and Knight alike.

From the top of the ramparts and under the gaze of the twin wooden drakar, most of the remaining Viking's desperately rained death upon the interlopers, in the form of flaming arrows, long spears, stones and anything else they could get their hands on. It had been working right at the beginning of the battle when the two invading companies crashed into each other when they were too surprised and confused to do anything else, but eventually they both fell into formations with shields raised to protect themselves from the falling missiles while their men at their respective fronts clashed against the other.

Behind the Ashfeld front, several teams of troops charged forward, hoisting log ladders over their shoulders. Arrows rained upon them, a few members of each group grunting and screaming as the projectiles hit their mark, but those alive kept running, not losing pace and not looking back.

They finally arrived at their destination, the rampart's west wall and rushed to lean their ladders against it. Once they were more or less secure, they began to climb.

"{Attackers! West wall!}" They heard a Viking yelling from the battlements. The Knights didn't understand the Northern tongue, but hearing the urgency in the voice said enough, making them hasten their ascent.

Not soon after, more arrows came whizzing by their heads from the main rampart to their side, catching a few of them in the side and sending them screaming from their handholds.

One footsoldier ducked under his comrade falling off the ladder above him, fueling his desire to reach the top.

After what felt like a nail biting eternity of climbing and praying that the archers would miss, he grasped the top of the wall. Hoisting himself up, he gave a triumphant cry.

*CRUMPF!*

His victory was short lived as a heavy block of gold coloured steel slammed onto his head in a downward swing, denting his helm and shattering his skull to shards in one blow. The block was box shaped, the sides embedded with a mixture of curving and rectangular designs and the face bore five small spikes, firmly lodged in the man's cranium. The perpetrator retracted their weapon and briskly prodded the now dead body back, his lifeless fingers losing their grip and sending him back to the ground.

The handle of the hammer was a black metal rod decorated with a helix wave in gold, travelling under leather straps fashioned into a grip towards the bottom of the equally golden, serpent shaped pommel.

A strong, calloused fist was closed around the handle of this beautiful, yet brutal war hammer, their finger's tattooed with runes, painted in red. The wrist and forearm attached to them were garbed in black, rough, serpentine hide, a big metal stud embossed with a skull on the back of the hand. The armbands ended just above the elbow, below a pair of muscular biceps, which were disturbingly mutilated with pale white scars, criss crossing each other and the diamond-shaped gaps painted red, as if made in an effort to imitate scales.

The rough leather of their gambeson creaked and bent as it moved along her powerful, yet angular figure. The hide was painted the same red as her tattoos, acting as a backdrop for patterns of black, coiling serpents, similar to her cloth pants atop her leather boots, except their reptile was embroidered gold. It was tightly fastened to her form, secured with belts adorned with lengths of rope, fishing hooks and a small smithing mallet. A necklace of dagger shaped teeth hung from her neck, ripped from the jaws of a shark.

Her head was shielded from the world by a steel helm, fashioned from the same shining gold colored metal as her hammer and adorned with two curved, black metal horns, the tips stained crimson with more paint(hopefully). The helm was held onto her with a cord connecting the two cheek plates, but leaving her tattooed cheeks and snarling lips open for the world to see.

And that was the way she liked it.

The woman turned her head to the thumping of wood on wood, grabbing her attention down the rampart as several more foot soldiers pulled themselves over the edge.

"{Serpent heretic!}" One cried, alerting his comrades as they brandished their swords and shields.

Letting out a guttural bellow, she charged shoulder first and hammer gripped tight in both hands. The weight of the metal made it whistle as she swung it back and around, crashing against the closest man's raised shield, batting it out of his grasp before she followed up with a downward slam on his head. He crumbled, falling to the floor as the brutal fighter raised her weapon once more, this time to block an oncoming blade with the shaft.

With a grunt she shoved back, her greater strength knocking her next foe off balance and winding her weapon down, she made a heavy upward swing.

*POW!* The man was lifted off the ground by the impact delivered up his now shattered jaw, the force carrying him back over the rampart, gurgling on his own blood.

"HUWAAH!" She looked back to the walkway and sidestepped another soldier's blade, immediately retaliating by slamming her elbow into the gap between his helm and his hauberk. He stumbled back, clutching the bridge of his nose.

"URAAH!" She screamed once more, swinging her hammer across his face. With a dull crack, his head spun, his neck broken. He flopped over the wall.

Turning from the freshly dead, the warrior's shoulder's heaved as her blood buzzed in her ears, taking a moment to relish the afterglow of triumph. Even if they were lowly foot soldiers with deaths of little value or consequence, she had won. She had proven herself.

She was strong.

*P-TANG!* She jolted as an arrow glanced off the top of her helm. She berated herself for getting distracted.

Running to the edge at which the enemy's ladders rested, she grabbed each by their tops and pushed them back over. With the flank secured, she ran back to the central battlement where the rest of her "loyal troops" were fending off any attempts to climb this wall in a similar fashion.

"{Drive the enemy back!}"

"{There's so many of them!}"

"{I don't know which is worse. That we are under attack on all sides or that we are taking orders from a pale faced Snakeskin!}" One of the men spat.

The woman snarled as she stalked past, making him swear in fright and jump out of her path, allowing her to reach the forward perch and survey the outer keep.

The woman had originally felt despair and fury that instead of being deployed on the fronts, she had been stored away at this fort so deep in Warborn territory. She had fought and bled too much just to be pushed to the sidelines, even worse that she was in command of the troops stationed here, made entirely of unworthy and feeble warriors. For weeks she had been wasting away in boredom while struggling not to strangle someone each time they gave her a scathing look or cursed her behind her back.

She made no attempts to assuage the tensions as she despised them just as much. All that mattered to her was that they followed her orders, to which they begrudgingly complied. Any resistance was immediately crushed under her fist, literally. More than a few of her subordinates had suffered from a stifling punch or two.

But whatever reservations they had, it was overshadowed by the presence of their mutual foe. Speaking of, she needed to focus on that. Stepping over to the railing, she looked down on the battlefield.

Swords and shields clashed, men and women were screaming, fires burning. Below, the enemy pushed back and forth, desperately trying to shift the stalemate in their favour, while trying to assault the inner keep.

When her scouts returned the night before bringing news of invading fleets, her relief was immeasurable. Finally, she would be tested. In the name of the Jötunn whose name she shared, she was powerful, enduring and unrelenting. Knight, Samurai, Wu Lin, it made no difference. She will overcome any foe, they will be judged and be sent to their feeble gods, broken and found wanting.

"{Enemy to the South!}" One of her men yelled out and she turned to the shipyard beyond the courtyard. Giving out a battlecry, a throng of purple clad warriors charged into the fray, smashing against the flanks of Knights and Samurai. The sounds of war escalated to a cacophony of terrible noise as red, blue, green and violet bled together in a macabre collage of death and carnage.

The woman, the Jormungandr, smiled.

'Finally.'

"{TO VALHALLA!}" She roared, raising her hammer to the sky and despite the animosity between them, her troops joined her in her thirst for glory.

"{VALHALLA!}"

And so the cycle of violence continued. Four peoples all fighting the same war for different reasons. Duty, kin, glory, revenge, peace but most of all, honor. It was for these words that they tore themselves apart and would've done so for thousands of more years to come.

Who prevailed? Who would win the pivotal battle of Happvad? Who would win the war, once and for all?

We will never know, for unbeknownst to us, the world wasn't so small to hold us alone.

And in a single moment everything changed.

"HURRAAAGH!" The Jormungandr howled as she rammed her hammer's pommel into a Samurai foot soldier's stomach, making him double over and letting her hit him on the head once before swinging it back, down, then up the chin, sending him flying off the overlook. With a grunt of exertion, she flipped the hammer around her back and onto her shoulder again.

But before she could search for her next foe, she was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea, making her stumble. She blinked wildly in confusion as she tried to regain her senses, groaning as her temples were assaulted by an abrupt stabbing pain. As she rubbed at her brow under her helm she looked at her hand and held it before her eyes, watching as the smallest hairs on her skin stood on end.

As a warrior who lived on the sea, she had felt this sensation numerous times, but never so sudden.

'This feeling…a storm?' She thought as she looked to the sky, dark clouds rolling on the horizon.

The Shaolin nimbly ducked under an arrow, then a second before his hand whipped out and snatched a third out of the air, flipping it over in his fingers sending it flying back to it's Viking owner on the parapet above, the man gurgling in surprise when it lodged itself in his chest.

*Rmr…*

The monk paused. He stood absolutely still at what he felt. His mission temporarily forgotten, he steadied himself with his staff as he crouched down and placed his fingers on the soft dirt. Closing his eyes, he shut himself off from all other sensation, focusing solely on his fingers and the ground.

He felt the thundering of feet. Shaking from catapults. But then he felt something else.

*Rmr…*

His brow knitted together. There it was again. If he didn't feel it a second time, he wouldn't have believed it.

The Earth was shuddering.

The bowstring dug into the sea green fabric of its owner's glove as she pulled the notched arrow past her concealed cheek. She exhaled and it sprung forth, catching a purple clad warrior in the neck.

Without skipping a beat, the Orochi reached behind her and retrieved another arrow from her quiver, her eyes not leaving her next target, a captain in the far back of the latest battalion of troops. She notched it and pulled the string back once more.

She steadied her arm, becoming perfectly still as she lined up her shot. She breathed in. Her finger twitched.

But then something moved out of the corner of her vision. Her eyes glanced to the fletching of the arrow in her grasp, clutched between her fingers next to her cheek.

The slight bristles of the feather were flickering.

Only then did she feel the cold Valkenheim breeze brushing across the skin of her brow, the only skin exposed to the elements. Adjusting her aim to compensate for the wind she prepared to breathe out.

The arrow sailed.

And drifted to the left, narrowly missing her target's head.

She lowered her bow slightly.

The wind had changed.

Looking up from her target, she felt and watched the winds shifting, picking up in strength, rustling the boughs of the trees, flags and standards snapping and mounted animal bones and skulls rattling together.

Then she heard it. The rattling cawing of crows and other birds. Looking to the East, she watched as hundreds of feathered forms flew across the sky, their appearance uncharacteristic of the avians who would normally be startled far away from the din of battle, who were now flying overhead.

Then the ground shook.

The first time, the Warden didn't even register the tremor, automatically assuming it to be the impact of a ship mounted catapult striking the fort's walls.

The second time he definitely noticed when he was thrown to the ground.

Then he noticed how quiet it was. Quickly pulling himself to his knees he looked and saw warriors, friends and foes alike, frozen in the middle of battle, confused at whatever just happened.

The sky, which was formally clear and blue, now filled with great, malevolent clouds, smothering the sun and casting the world into shadow. The cold wind whipped and slithered through the Warden's armor, making him shiver.

He saw the growing terror in the eyes of the men and sparse women around him, forming a kind of horrifying understanding as a primal fear clawed its way to the surface, planted within their very blood. A fear that transcended generations and was sown into the depths of their souls on a single day long, long ago. A day fearfully whispered around campfires and taverns for thousands of years.

Meeting each of their eyes, he knew that they all came to the same conclusion, but not one of them dared to speak its name.

Then the silence was shattered.

Coming seemingly from all around, the muted sound of cracking and rumbling arose. The ground began to shift, the earth beneath their feet pulling this way and that like a carpet being yanked out from under them. The shaking grew stronger and stronger, cracks carving themselves in the stone walls of the fortress battlements.

That was enough for the stunned armies and for him. His men and the enemy began to yell and scramble in fear as the fortress groaned and the mountains themselves started to quake.

"{RETREAT! TO THE SHIPS!}" The Warden screamed at the top of his lungs, breaking the spell over his fellow warriors. His own troops abandoned their battles and fretfully pushed past their opponents to run back towards the West, where they landed beyond the forest on the shore. Deciding better to try and survive themselves instead of fighting each other, most of the Vikings Samurai and Wu Lin warriors scrambled in random directions, trying to find safety or a means of escape, the rest continued to stubbornly fight.

"{MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!}" The Warden yelled, standing at the gates waving his troops through the way they came. Only when he did the last few came through did he start running himself, heart thundering in his chest as they fled back towards the forest.

But just as they were crossing the field there was a flash of white followed by a burst of bone rattling sound. A lightning bolt struck the earth. In an instant, the world's quaking intensified and the ground splintered.

The Warden's sabatons slipped and he fell onto his backside, sliding on the wet ground as he desperately tried to stop himself into a widening chasm. Digging his heels in, he halted just at the edge of the opening crevasse while some of his troops weren't so lucky, falling down screaming into the black pit.

His soul went out for the poor bastards, but there would be time for mourning later.

"{COMMANDER!}" He looked up to see the remainder of his men standing on the other side, shifting nervously as they peered over the edge into the abyss.

"{Get to the ships!}" He yelled and groaned, pushing himself up to his feet.

"{But sir-!}" The captain calling for him stumbled as another tremor hit, the soldier's loyalty being the only reason they hadn't bolted yet.

"{JUST GO! I'LL FIND ANOTHER WAY!}" The Warden ordered again.

*CRACK!* A boulder the size of a house splintered off the nearby cliffside above him. Letting out a shout, the Warden broke into a sprint in the opposite direction and leapt.

*BOOM!* He felt the impact in his bones as the slab slammed onto the patch of earth he had previously occupied. He let out a breath of relief. Taking one last look behind him, he saw his men finally obey and run off.

That took care of them, but what now? He had no way to the West shore where the ships were and the whole ridge felt like it was coming apart.

"{Think! Think! There's got to be a way out of here!}" His mind raced as he searched his surroundings. The winter wind howled, lifting light debris and throwing it about as the ground continued to pitch and heave. Icy waves crashed against the side of the fortress as its weathered wooden bones groaned.

Wait! The Viking fortress. It doubled as a port. Maybe there was still a ship left that he could take. He would still need to figure out how to sail one on his own, let alone one of Viking design, but that was a problem for later.

His desperate course decided, he gripped his sword and ran back towards the fort. He ran under the gateway once more, ducking his head as a mounted ram skull swung off its post and almost smashed into him. Glancing about, he could see the courtyard nearly deserted, the only people left being the warriors who were too stubborn to let their opponents live and the dead that lay on the dirt, some of them crushed by fallen trees or bits of architecture.

"{Focus!}" He told himself, turning right and descending the slope towards the port overlooking the sea. His spirits soared. There was one left, hanging off the left crane and swinging back and forth in the frenzied wind and quaking Earth.

He ran over, nearly tripping over the steps up the scaffolding in his haste and looked the vessel over. Both stemposts were carved in the hissing visage of a serpent, frozen in time with its fangs bared. Curiously, it lacked the red and blue shields on the Warborn alliance on its sides. It was a moderately sized ship, meant for a small crew, meaning he would likely have some difficulties once he got it into the water.

But that was later, this was now.

Stepping to the side, he looked over the crane, searching for a means to release the winches. Finding a knot of thick ropes, he began to pull at it, but his metal gloves made it too difficult to do it by hand.

Flipping his sword over, he reared back and swung against the taught cord. It bounced off and he tried again, this time his blade dug into the coarse fibers. He raised his weapon once more.

A floorboard creaked behind him and he flinched.

He spun and used the flat of his blade to block a katana aimed at his neck. Pushing back, he brusquely jabbed at his attacker with the end of his crossguard, the pointed edge smacking into their wooden armor, following up with two wild swings which forced them back.

'{Guess she had the same idea!}' He grudgingly noted as the lithe swordswoman hopped back. The Orochi made a quick gesture with her off hand, beckoning him forward before getting into a stance.

No words were exchanged, but the Warden received the message clearly.

They were both in a hurry, so they'd better make this quick.

The Orochi struck first, lunging forward to quickly lash out at him with quick one handed swings, forcing him to repeatedly block, the air ringing with the sound of steel on steel. He grunted and swung upward, knocking her blade back with his heavier sword, followed up with a hasty thrust which she easily dodged and attacked with one of her own, forcing him to release one hand and bat it aside with the back of his gauntlet.

They brought their weapons back around and clashed together, sparks flying as the lengths of steel ran against each other. The Warden glared defiantly at his opponent from under his faceplate, meeting her narrowed eyes as they pushed against each other, trying to break their foe's guard.

Ultimately, it came down to raw strength and being a larger man trained to fight with a heavier sword and steel armor, the Knight had the obvious advantage. With a grunt he shoved her back, making her stumble as he followed with a quick slash. She reacted just in time to turn her head so the blade glanced off the smooth surface of her kabuto and scratched against her shoulder guard, leaving her unharmed as she leapt back.

Retreating to a safe distance, the Orochi seemed to change strategies. She deftly flipped her sword over into a reverse grip and crouched low. Then she dashed forward, sprinting so nimbly her feet barely made a sound on the floorboards.

The Warden lifted his sword to block, but faltered. Her blade was hidden behind her back, he couldn't see where it was coming from.

At the last second, he chose to leap to the side but it was not enough. A split moment later, the folded steel cleaved the air and he felt it cut into his side as she passed by. He let out a pained yell. Stumbling back, he clutched his side as the Orochi made distance between them again with her back to the prized ship, standing there as if she was mocking him, flicking off the fresh blood on the tip of her sword.

'{So fast!}' He thought in astonishment as he quickly inspected the wound, revealing that she had aimed her blade at the side of his torso where his chestplate didn't quite cover. Thankfully his hauberk underneath had protected him, the woven metal rings had turned what would have been a fatal blow into a shallow cut.

Taking a moment to send a silent thank you to his armorsmith, he gripped his sword and faced down the nimble Samurai, who was currently getting back into the same reverse grip as before.

She dashed towards him once more, her blade concealed behind her approaching form.

But this time, he was ready. His eyes left her sword wielding arm and drifted to her feet as they softly hit against the wooden floorboards. Closer and closer she stepped…

Until finally, there. Her right foot pivoted and he swung to his left.

*SKASH!* The Warden's heavier longsword batted the lighter katana back. The Orochi's eyes opened wide in surprise as she was knocked off balance, her guard wide open and the Warden let his attack's momentum carry him in a quick spin, bringing his blade back around. With a loud crunch of wood, his sword carved a deep furrow diagonally through her chest plate.

But he was not done. As he withdrew his sword, he crouched down and aimed his shoulder to her.

"Miserum!" He barked and sprung, slamming into his opponent with a powerful bodycheck. He heard her wheeze as they collided, a moment before she was sent sprawling backwards, all the way off of the cliffside pier and onto the deck of the Viking ship, slamming against the port side.

Seeing his opportunity, the Warden lunged, bringing his blade over his head in a wild swing as he ran. The Orochi shook off her pained haze just in time to look up and see him rushing her.

She rolled to the side.

With a crack, the Warden's longsword embedded itself in the side of the ship. He immediately tried to pull it free, but it wouldn't budge.

"{Damn it!}" He hissed, turning his head to the side to see his foe raise her katana over her head in a two handed strike. With no weapon, he was defenceless.

"Nigashimasenu!" She cried.

But right before she could deal the finishing blow, another tremor shook the earth, one even more intense than before, shaking the entire pier. Above the two warriors, the winches on the cranes holding the ship aloft creaked in protest before one finally snapped. The ropes came loose, letting out a dry rasp as they became slack.

Both warriors' stomachs flipped as the ship fell out from underneath them, plummeting several feet until the precautionary knots on the rope caught. The ship abruptly stopped falling and they both hit the deck with a crash, throwing them on their backs. There it swung, pushed around by the wind and listing on one side as the anchor was now hanging under the hull.

The Warden groaned, his body aching all over. He looked up to see the Orochi similarly licking her wounds, dazedly trying to get to her feet. He reached and gripped his blade still stuck in the side of the ship and used it to pull himself up. Then, he planted one foot against the side and finally wrenched it out in a small spray of splinters.

His weapon now retrieved, he turned to see that the woman across from him had also regained her footing and returned to her two handed stance, ready to go again. Letting out a sigh, he rolled his shoulder and got back into his own to resume their battle.

So focused on their opponent, the two swordsmen nearly jumped when there was a loud thud of metal on wood on the starboard side, rocking the ship. Their heads turned to the sudden appearance of a bronze colored war hammer on the deck.

They looked up just as a bolt of lightning arced across the black, turbulent sky.

*BAKOOM!* Looming over them from the pier was a horned being, a silhouette against the white glow.

They let out a yawp and leapt off, falling several feet before slamming down onto the deck, landing in a crouch. The Knight and Samurai turned their weapons halfway between each other and the new arrival, a burly Viking woman dressed in red and black. Her lips curled into a hateful sneer as she regarded them both.

She picked up her hammer and rose.

"I'm only going to say this once…" She growled, craning her head back and forth, her neck eliciting a dull pop. "Get off my ship!"

To be continued...

Translations:

"Miserum." = "Pitiful."

"Nigashimasenu." = "I will not let you escape."