July 28th, 1840

Whitehall District, London, England

A light rainstorm swept the streets of the government quarter of the British Empire, causing Mister Atkins to pick up his pace to reach the door of the small office he worked on a daily basis. While he had experienced many a storm as an 'exploring' officer under Wellington, he was not as young as he used to be.

Besides, I have done my time.

Stepping inside the office, he heard the familiar voice of Mister Thomas. "Did you hear the news, Atkins?"

The minister shed his wet woolen coat and top hat on the nearby rack, turning to face his colleague and speaking at the same time. "And what's that?"

"The Duke of Weselton has backed out. And while Hawkins may have moved without his orders, he wouldn't dare defy him."

Atkins cocked an eyebrow. "This makes operations in Arendal much more… complicated."

"Indeed. However, not impossible. But I need your help."

"Oh?"

"With the muskets delivered, the fire has already been started. But without fuel, our revolt may fail. However, I know a large number of mercenaries that are either in the area or in route. With these, the Loyalists are sure to fall."

"And I assume you need my contacts in Norway to get them safely offloaded and moved to the front?"

"Of course. And I don't need to be a diplomat to know that the Norwegians would be happier without an Ice Queen as their neighbor."

"True. Now while this is all too easy to arrange, don't we want chaos, rather than an easy rebel victory?"

"Of course. The difference is that the mercenaries are also to either leave as soon as the battle is won, or even better yet, turn on the rebels."

"And this can't be traced back to us?"

"Of course not, Atkins. I'm the soul of caution, after all."

…

Castle Courtyard, Arendal

Mikael and his fellow Grenadiers had been busy all morning packing, drawing supplies, and loading wagons and pack animals with the necessary provisions needed for a campaign. While they were certainly busy, a silence had fallen over the once talkative squad as the implications of what was coming chilled their bones.

They had been in the thick of the fighting earlier that summer against a warlord who had set himself in the borderlands in the north, and had certainly had had their whiff of grapeshot. As such, none had any illusions of what battle, or campaigning was like. Worse yet was that these were their own countrymen, not outlaws. Some of them knew men who served in units that had gone dark. As such they were forced to ponder if their own comrades had been killed or turn traitor, and also ponder which of the two was worse. It was a hard call, as what few moments of peace were used to sternly curse the turn-coats.

It was in this atmosphere when in the early afternoon an officer approached Mikael's squad during a quick respite, telling them to go to relax before they could scramble to their feet. Still, Lundgren made a point as Lance Corporal to not waste the officer's time.

"What can we do for you, sir?"

"Is this the squad containing the following men: Lance Corporals Lundgren and Asgeirsen, as well as Grenadiers Eriksen, Karlsen, Jegersen and Vilgerdarsen?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. As of today you men are to be transferred to the 2nd Battalion, Arendal's-Own Landwehr Regiment in a manpower exchange, by order of Colonel Marcks. As Corporal Johansen has become ill, Lance Corporal Lundgren is to be promoted to Brevet Corporal. Any Questions, Gentlemen?"

Lundgren was too shocked to respond, leaving Asgeirsen to fill in. "Yes sir, is our chain of command tracking this?"

"Of course, here are your orders." After passing out a number of pieces of parchment, he continued. "Now, naturally go speak to your Company Sergeant Major to ensure he can remove you from the Company rosters, and then report to your new Battalion. Carry on."

As quickly as he had appeared, the young officer disappeared for he still had a number of men to give the same orders to. Mikael Eriksen was still confused, when an elbow nudged him lightly. It was Vilgerdarsen.

"Oh Eriksen, you are a crafty one alright. Or just very lucky."

Mikael looked at him in confusion.

"Don't know what I speak of? Your brother got you out of the campaign. Thankfully us too."

Mikael shook his head. "Dieter wouldn't do that."

Asgeirsen piped in. "Vilgerdarsen is right lad. Of all the squads in our company, we got picked. That doesn't seem a little odd to you?"

Mikael looked down, feeling a little let down that the brother with the most honorable post may have abused his relationship with the Queen to keep him out of the fighting.

"Either way, we got work to do lads. Let's go let the Sergeant Major know the news."

…

Arendal Wilderness

Ásta and her party made their way through the brigand camp, under the watchful eyes of evil, predatory men. This scene left all of the would-be crusaders on edge save for Ásta herself. The Draugr had nothing to fear from the escaped convicts turned rebels, but instead had a gleeful hatred for them.

Representing in her opinion the worst of both Pagan and Christian Scandinavia, these men combined the savagery and barbarism of the worst of the Viking raiders along with the sickness of mind that came with the Christian belief system. She only smiled as she knew that these men were soon to die.

Coming to the largest tent, the escorts of the party halted themselves as well as the horses. Based by the only serious security in place for the camp, Ásta figured this was the tent of the leader of the bandits. Her suspicions where quickly confirmed.

Within a minute, a bandit emerged from the tent. With a stolen officer's uniform over his rags, this one looked particularly important. "Muspel will see the masked woman now. Alone."

Frikron gave Ásta a concerned look, which she dismissed with a mere hand wave. Ásta wondered why he hadn't figured out by now that she was in no need of protection, but apparently the women of this era where treated as fragile trophies by the "honorable" men, with the rest thinking nothing of beating their wives.

Oh how far has my beloved Scandinavia fallen. Regardless, it's time to meet this 'Muspel'.

Ásta dismounted her numbed horse, before entering through the flap into the large tent. Hearing the flap slap shut shortly after entering, Ásta was quickly introduced to the sight that was the bandit leader. Tall and bulky even for Scandinavians, he towered over Ásta as he turned towards her, lumbering over her like a bear standing on its hind legs. Unlike the other bandits of self-importance, Muspel stuck true to his adopted name, covering himself with furs and hide that was weighed down with weapons and cartridges. Topping it all off with both fiery red body hair that covered his head, scalp and exposed chest as well as a fiery gaze, Ásta was not surprised that this man had made it to the top of the food chain.

It no longer mattered, as there was a new apex predator in town. She smiled behind her mask.

The large man gestured to a field chair position in front of a war table, covered with maps, crude orders and dispatches. He was hardly a trained officer, but he was trying. Obeying him for now, Ásta sat down as Muspel did likewise in a much larger, nicer chair across from her. All niceties out of the way, the bandit leader went straight to business.

"So you're this holy messenger of god I heard a lot about." While the giant of a man lacked finer grammar knowledge, Ásta was able to see a certain degree of intelligence in the man. Still, Ásta began to worm her way in to his mind to dig for weakness.

"I've been called this, yes."

"Well, is it true? Or are you just a good con-woman?"

Ásta grinned and cocked her head. "What do you think?

"That you are merely a charlatan, puppet mastering a weak man to get what you want."

"Oh, so you don't think I have divine powers?"

"Any more than I can control fire."

Ásta chuckled at this, knowing of what was to happen. Having had the time to dig, Ásta was able to determine his weakness. Years of being locked in one prison or another, Muspell had long become institutionalized to a system where only the strongest had any power or respect. As such, he had become paranoid and fearful of losing his status as the most feared, even now when free. Now he grasped onto power like a man on a bucking stallion, clinging on for dear life. He would be easy to manipulate.

"What's funny, woman?"

Ásta's chuckling stopped abruptly, as her face twisted into a frown. All was going to plan, but first Muspell had to be put into place. She sighed, before taking off her mask and pulling her hood back. Now at this point she had two faces- one was her regenerating face that was attempting to return to how she looked when she died. The other was her "death mask", which was the face she bore when she first awoke. While she could also twist the minds of others to change what they saw, those were the two she could actually physically attain. For now, she bore the former, appearing as a later-middle aged woman, still bearing a frown.

Standing up from her chair and moving around to the side of the war table, Ásta began to speak calmly but firm. "Now you see me as I am, for I am no angel. But I have powers that can drive fear into the hearts on men, powers you should respect."

His pride and authority challenged, Muspell sharply rose. "Sit down."

Ásta shrugged. "Make me."

Muspell moved over, his large meaty hands grasping her shoulders as he attempted to shove her back into the rickety field chair. However, the Draugr did not budge an inch.

Sighing, she grasped his left forearm, slightly growing her hand with her powers to grasp its entirety. With little effort she wrenched the arm into the air, before squeezing just short of bone damage. With a remarkable degree of restrain Muspell avoided crying out, but still gritted his teeth and hissed to in failed attempt to alleviate pain. Ásta was now in firm control, though Muspell would still need convincing of this.

"Now Muspell- "

His mind not thinking clearly due to a combination of eldritch mind twisting, adrenaline and crushing pain, Muspell did not think that perhaps a woman who appeared past menopause but was lifting him with one hand should not be trifled with. Instead he panicked and swung his free fist as hard as he could into Ásta's left cheek. And while Muspell's sucker punch was nothing to laugh at, he might as well have tried punching marble. Pain shot down his fist after impacting cheekbones harder than stone, which was made worse as the Draugr increased the pressure on his forearm. As desired, Ásta felt his forearm bones begin to give way, only to relent at the last second.

Now, perhaps he will listen.

"Now Muspell, at this point you have two choices. Firstly, I can smash you into this table, the sound of which will attract your guards, who will see you being made helpless by an old woman. Regardless of what happens then, you lose power. Secondly, you can accept the terms to my deal. A deal that will ensure you never have to fear losing the fear of your men again."

"Alright, I'll listen to your deal! But I'm not agreeing to anything until I know details!"

Ásta shrugged, before loosening her grip to where she still had control but was no longer crushing his forearms. "I can respect that. Now, what do you wish to know?"

Gasping in relief, the dominated giant asked away. "How are you going to make it so I never lose my men's fear and respect?"

"Simple. I'm going to make you like me." She produced a vial from a pouch, holding it up to where he could see it. "With this."

With that, Ásta let him go. Upon landing the several inch fall, Muspell staggered back instinctively as he clutched his forearm with his throbbing right hand. There was only one thing to be said.

"What are you!?"

Ásta smiled as she set the vial down on the table, before donning her mask and hood once more. Only then did she reply. "Exactly what you thought I wasn't. The Harbinger of a higher power." As she turned to leave, she casually gave her vague directions. "Don't bother sending for me for If you decide to take my offer tonight. I'll know."

What Ásta didn't say was she already knew he would take the vial, even if he didn't know it's side effects. For whereas Surtrsen was a slave to his convictions, Muspell was a slave to his paranoia. Even now she knew he would soon figure out that if Ásta had so casually left one vial for him, she could make the same deal to another. He would drink it before dawn, and thanks to her abilities, she would know when he did and would guide him. Just as she hoped.

All is going according to plan.

…

Bit of Notes:

Long time, no see. Got back from NTC out in California on the 4th, where we kept busy doing recovery and other things that didn't give me much time to write. However, I have begun the general out-processing of the army, so I should have more time. Crossing my fingers, here.

Another thing I should have taken the time to do months ago but have not gotten around to. Since most of my readers read both my running fanfics, I am announcing that Hans' Fate is going into hiatus. It's not that I am out of ideas, but rather that I've been pouring my time and energy into finishing Aftermath, as well as a number of other projects. Of the two series, Hans Fate is meant to be a much longer haul whereas Aftermath is entering its final act now and is being focused on as such. My apologies to the people I've kept waiting without explanation, as I've been working on what was supposed to be the chapter of HF that explained all of this, but it's not getting finished anytime soon. When that gets released, it's not the end of the hiatus.

Thanks for your understanding and viewership,

O7,

Dragunov