God of War, The Old Ones
Chapter 1: The Mysterious Stranger
In the shadowed aftermath of Baldur's fall, whispers and legends stir amongst the Aesir and Vanir. Yet, amidst their godly intrigues, Ragnarök is upon them.
Yet, a figure moves unnoticed — a man who was seeking purpose. To the world, he is a wanderer, a face in the crowd of Midgard's mortals and similar realms. But beneath the surface, his story is a tapestry of cosmic secrets, woven from threads unknown even to those who dwell in the higher echelons of Yggdrasil's sprawling branches.
Erick — a name as mundane as his assumed human form — is an enigma. His origins lie not within the Nine Realms, nor amongst the pantheons that reign over them, but from a place so alien, so inherently chaotic, it is whispered in hushed tones only by those who dare to dream beyond the edges of reality. This man, if one could still call him that, harbors within him the essence of an elder being, his nature so potent that even those who consider themselves deities would feel a tremor of fear at the mention of his true name, a name long buried under the weight of eons.
Unlike Kratos, whose past is etched in the history of myth and the scars of battle, Erick's history is a void, a silence that echoes with things left unsaid, deeds undone, and powers unfathomed. He's the shadow of a rumor, the breath of a story told in the dark, his existence doubted by even the most ancient and knowing.
Erick's journey through the Norse realms this time around is a quiet one, his presence barely disturbing the fabric of the world around him. He wears the guise of man, his humanoid forms the most comfortable for interaction with his greying hair and middle aged, yet strong features with his Norse attire he chose for himself when venturing into this realm, but beneath it lies a truth that would unravel the sanity of those who gaze upon it. His transformation is not a thing of beauty or horror alone; it is a spectrum that traverses the edge of humanity to the very precipice of terror — a metamorphosis through stages that reflect the depth of his ancient and otherworldly soul.
A being from the fears of the unknown… an eldritch being.
In the deepest recesses of his being, Erick yearns for connection, for the warmth that once was. Long before Faye's paths crossed with Kratos, there was a whisper of affection, a delicate bond formed with her that had to be severed for a time for her safety, a woman of strength and mystery whom he respected with such ferocity that he kept his distance, honoring her without the intimacy that might have been. Now, with the Jotnar fallen as he's recently learned, grief is his silent companion, the weight of his lover's death a new burden on his already laden shoulders.
To the world, he remains hidden, his monstrous true form cloaked in the banality of human flesh. But in a clearing, observed by none other than Freya herself, a moment of vulnerability surfaces. Clutched in his hand is a rune, etched upon a necklace — not any necklace, but one distinctly Jotunn. It is a token of a past life, a life that now intertwines with the destiny of gods and men. As Freya drew her blade, her eyes narrow with suspicion, and the threads of fate begin to pull taut. For in that Jotunn rune, a story begins to unfold — a story of Erick, the man who is so much more than he seems.
…
Freya, her warrior's instincts honed through centuries of divine conflicts, feels the pull of curiosity and caution as she silently advances through the clearing, her eyes fixed on the lone figure of Erick. The world around them seems to fall silent, the whispering winds and rustling tree branches in the snow ceasing their chorus as if in anticipation of the impending encounter. Her hand grips the hilt of her blade, a deadly dance partner long familiar with the steps of confrontation.
Erick, whose senses are as sharp as the edge of reality itself, knows of her presence. He can feel her approach, the determined heartbeat, the slight rustle of her garments, the tension in the air that heralds her readiness to strike. Yet, he remains motionless, a statue carved from the very essence of tranquility. His eyes, fixed on the distant snow-covered trees and the eternal winter, betray no hint of concern or awareness.
Freya closes the distance, her movements as silent as the shadows that play at the edge of sight. With a swift motion, she draws her blade, the metal singing a soft, lethal note as it comes to rest against Erick's neck. "Where did you find that trinket?" she demands, her voice a blend of iron and ice.
The man known as Erick offers no physical reaction, no twitch of muscle or flicker of fear. It is as if the cold kiss of her blade is nothing more than a breeze against his skin. "I didn't find it," he replies, his voice a calm, undisturbed pool. "It was given to me."
Such an answer should rattle the very bones of possibility. The Jotnar, the giants of legend and lore, have been gone from this realm for time untold. Skepticism grips Freya's heart, and yet, the serenity with which Erick meets her blade-steadied interrogation pierces deeper than any physical weapon. It is the calm, not the storm, that now disturbs the Vanir goddess, for there is a truth in his words that defies the logic of gods and men — a truth that only a being of his hidden, eldritch nature could possibly possess.
The metal of Freya's blade remains unwavering at Erick's throat, a silent threat that dances between the lines of curiosity and caution. The goddess's eyes, ancient and knowing, search Erick's face for signs of deceit, for the twitch or pallor that speaks of lies. But she finds none, only the unsettling stillness of a sea untouched by wind.
"Who gave it to you?" Freya's voice carries the weight of her divine authority, demanding an answer that might unravel the mystery before her.
Erick's gaze finally shifts, meeting Freya's with an impenetrable depth. "Someone very dear to me," he responds, his tone unchanged, the timbre of his voice revealing nothing of the emotion such a memory might evoke. "Someone who died while I was... elsewhere."
The blade's pressure against his skin does not ease, nor does Freya's guarded stance. "Explain," she insists, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of her scrutiny.
"A Jotunn woman," Erick continues, his voice a murmur of reverence and loss that seems to drift from the edges of another world. "A long time ago."
The revelation hangs between them, a piece of history that should not fit within the puzzle of the present. It challenges Freya's understanding of the timeline she knows, of the fate that had befallen the Jotnar. Erick's words, and the calm sorrow with which he speaks them, suggest a connection to the vanished race — a connection that, against all odds, has persisted through an age and a half of silence and assumed extinction.
Freya is left to ponder the implications of his claim, the existence of a bond that survived the annihilation of a people, and the presence of this enigmatic man who wears his secrets as closely as the skin beneath the blade.
The tension in Freya's arm ebbs away, the deadly promise of her blade retreating as it lowers from Erick's throat. The lines of wariness remain etched upon her face, yet there's a softening around the edges of her eyes — a dawning realization that the truth is a stranger narrative than she anticipated.
"Who are you?" she asks, her voice no longer edged with the steel of suspicion but with the clear ring of intrigue. "You appear as a man, yet you speak of the Jotnar as if they were kin. They have been absent from this realm for centuries. Who are you to claim such a connection? Who was this Jotunn?"
Erick's stillness is the quiet before the storm, a prelude to the revelation that is about to shift the tectonics of Freya's world. "Her name was Faye..." he reveals, locking eyes with the goddess, his gaze unwavering, a mirror to his soul.
The name strikes Freya like a thunderclap, a bolt from clear skies. She stumbles back, her heart a drumbeat of shock and recognition. Faye, the Jotunn who defied Odin, who stood firm against Thor's might, who was a whispered legend even amongst the gods for her rebellion and strength.
Erick observes the goddess's reaction, his expression unchanging amidst the storm of emotions his words have conjured. "My true name cannot be grasped by your dialect," he continues, his voice a calm haven in the surge of Freya's turmoil. "But you may call me Erick, as do the others in these lands. It's simpler, easier on the tongue."
The implication of his words, the ease with which he delivers them, speaks of a history intertwined with the very fabric of the realms, of stories untold and lives unlived within the scope of the gods' knowledge. Freya, faced with this enigma, now must consider the vastness of what she does not know — and the man named Erick, who is so much more than he seems.
Freya regains her composure, the pieces of her divine poise clicking back into place like armor over her momentary lapse of bewilderment. She straightens up, the goddess within her rekindling the flame of her eternal presence. Her voice carries a hint of the resilience that has characterized her existence, "If it's no trouble, what is your actual name? Try me, I may be able to pronounce it."
There's a pause, a breath of time that seems to wait for permission to continue. Then Erick, with the casualness of one discussing trivial matters, replies, "Cari'xiizizer."
His nonchalance is a veneer over the depth of his identity, the ease with which he shares a piece of his true self belying the complexity of his existence. "But," he adds, a shadow of a smile touching the corner of his lips, "it's about ten times as long, with sounds and noises that you can't make since you can't screech and roar... or vibrate matter with your thoughts."
The words hang in the crisp Nordic air, a revelation of his otherness that transcends the very limits of Freya's world. It's not just a name; it's a symphony of the unfathomable, a chorus of the chaos that birthed him, resonating with the power to shape reality itself.
Freya listens, the knowledge that she stands before a being whose very name is a testament to his alien origins, and who wields powers that defy her understanding of magic and might. In this revelation, the threads of Erick's story weave a pattern she can't yet decipher, but it's clear that he is a being of profound significance, one that holds answers to questions she has yet to even conceive.
Freya finds herself needing the solid comfort of the earth beneath her; she sinks down, her legs folding beneath her as she seats herself upon the cold ground. The revelation of Erick's true nature, or rather the enigma of it, coils around her like the mists of Niflheim — opaque and revealing in equal measure.
"What exactly are you?" The question seems frail in the face of such an unfathomable being. "You're no mortal man, this much is clear. And you're not a god from any of our realms. What, then, can you be?"
Erick looks upon the goddess, the weight of eons in his eyes. He takes a moment, collecting the threads of explanation, weaving them into a tapestry that Freya might gaze upon without losing herself to the madness that lurks in his full truth.
"I am what your kind might call an 'eldritch entity,'" he begins, his voice steady and even. "My existence stretches back to the infancy of the cosmos, to a time before your pantheons shaped the chaos into order."
He pauses, considering his words. "I hail from a place that is not a place, a realm that your mind could not hold without fracturing. It is a space between spaces, where the laws of your reality are but whispers and the screams of creation itself are the only truth."
Freya's eyes never waver from his, her mind grappling with the concept of an existence so alien.
"I am a shaper of the very fabric of matter, a whisperer to the forces that bind and unbind the universe. I can warp the threads of reality with but a thought, dance across dimensions with a step, and mold the essence of what is into what should not be."
His words flow like a dark river, rich with the power of uncharted depths. "My true form is... complex. It is not bound by flesh as you understand it. It is an amalgam of possibilities, a spectrum of being that can incite awe or horror, fascination or despair."
Freya's breath catches, her heart a silent drum in her chest as she absorbs his words.
"I must be cautious, for my full nature is not to be taken lightly. The last mortal who glimpsed but a fragment of my reality was... unmade by the knowledge. Their mind could not contain the vastness, the raw truth of what I am, and they were left a husk, a shell consumed by the effort to reconcile the irreconcilable."
Erick's gaze softens, an echo of empathy within. "I do not wish such a fate upon you, Freya. Thus, I will hold back the tides of my being, for your safety and for the preservation of your sanity."
Freya remains seated, the frost beneath her a distant notion. She is a goddess, mighty and ancient, yet in this moment, she is also a seeker of knowledge standing at the edge of a precipice, peering into the abyss that is Erick. His story, his being, has opened a door to a universe she never knew existed, and with a mix of trepidation and awe, she realizes that the world she knew is far wider and stranger than she ever imagined.
Erick's voice softens, reflecting an introspection that seems to stretch back through the veils of time. "In a sense, this shell you see before you are merely a disguise, a simple cloak to keep from alarming those I walk amongst. My true form is... monstrous by the standards of your world, and by most others."
He allows himself a small, rueful chuckle, a sound that seems to ripple with layers of unheard harmonies. "I've learned that the visage I wear influences how I am treated. As a man, I can interact, observe, and live. As my true self, I become the subject of fear and legend, a monster from a tale meant to incite terror rather than understanding."
Erick's gaze lowers to the pendant once more, his eyes tracing the runic carvings as if they were lines on a map, guiding him through memories. "Faye saw beyond the monstrous, beyond the unnatural. She looked upon me and saw... just another being, with thoughts and desires, fears and loneliness."
A shadow of sorrow passes over his features, a cloud obscuring the moon. "I would have cherished more time with her, to exist in her gaze where I was neither monster nor man, but simply 'Erick.' But fate, it seems, holds a cruel sense of timing. I arrived too late to explore what could have been, left only with the echo of what was."
He lifts his head, meeting Freya's gaze once again, and in that look is an eternity of unspoken tales, of roads untaken, and of a love that transcends form and fear, life and loss.
Freya's inquiry carries the weight of one who understands the fluidity of divine borders and the tapestry of interconnected mythologies. "Have you traveled to other pantheons?" she asks, a note of wonder threading through her voice as she considers the breadth of Erick's journey.
Erick nods, a gesture that carries the gravity of countless ages. "I have walked among many pantheons, seen the rise and fall of gods and the ebb and flow of belief," he begins, his voice a low hum that seems to resonate with the very pulse of the earth.
"The Olympians," he starts, referencing the Greek gods of ancient power and tragedy, their tales of heroism and hubris woven deeply into the fabric of their world.
"The Egyptian gods, with their intricate balance of Ma'at, ruling over sands timeless and lands fertile and lush, their deities as complex as the society that revered them."
"The Celtic pantheon," he continues, "where the Tuatha Dé Danann hold court in realms unseen, their magic rich and wild, echoing through green hills and ancient stone."
"The gods of the Hindu traditions, a pantheon vast and vibrant, where deities dance in the cosmic cycle of Samsara, their stories a tapestry of epic proportions."
He mentions the Aesir and Vanir, nodding to Freya with a look of respect. "The Norse, of course, whose sagas are etched in ice and fire, where valor and the weave of their own struggles like the others, dominate the hearts of gods and mortals alike."
"The Shinto spirits of Japan, where Kami infuse every aspect of nature, their presence a harmonious blend with the world of man."
"The Aztec deities," he intones, "where the sun and moon demand reverence and sacrifice, their blood-stained pyramids standing as testament to their power."
"The Slavic gods, shrouded in the mists of ancient forests, their divine dramas playing out beneath the canopy of an untamed wilderness."
"And many more, some long forgotten by the worlds they once shaped, others whose names are still whispered in reverence or fear."
With each name, Erick paints a picture of a vast and intricate divine landscape, a multiverse of belief systems and godly powers, all of which he has traversed in his endless journey. "I remained unseen, a shadow among their grand narratives, observing, learning, and sometimes guiding, but always apart, always other."
Freya listens, each name a confirmation of the expansiveness of existence, a reminder of the infinite roles played out on the stage of creation, and of this one being before her who has witnessed it all from the wings, unseen but ever-present.
The flow of Erick's recollections halts abruptly, a sudden stillness overtaking him. It's a shift perceptible in the air, a tightening of the invisible strings that connect all things. Freya watches him, her instinct as a warrior recognizing the prelude to confrontation.
"Hold on a second," Erick says, his voice a low rumble, an undercurrent that suggests a coming storm. "Some berserkers who have been trying my patience are approaching. When they arrive, do nothing. I'll handle this, as I always have."
With a deliberate motion, he tucks the pendant — the link to his past and to Faye — safely into his pocket. Standing, he turns to face the new arrivals, his posture relaxed yet undeniably commanding, an unspoken challenge emanating from his very being.
Freya, her curiosity piqued, observes quietly. The berserkers, fierce and wild, step out from the trees. Their eyes are wild with the fury that grants them their name, their intentions written in the snarling lines of their faces and the grip on their weapons. Yet, as they confront Erick, they face not the unassuming man they might have expected, but an enigma, a force that has walked amongst gods and witnessed the turning of ages.
The air is charged with anticipation, and in this moment, Erick stands not just as a man, but as the embodiment of something far more ancient and powerful, his true nature a silent specter waiting beneath the surface.
As the berserkers charge, their battle cries tearing through the silence of the clearing, Erick's form begins to change. It's a subtle shift at first, barely noticeable, but it quickly becomes a cascading transformation. The man known as Erick dissolves, and in his place stands a figure of nightmarish grandeur, an entity woven from the very essence of eldritch power.
His silhouette bulges and expands, tendrils of darkness unfurling like the petals of a grotesque flower. His skin ripples and contorts as his eyes sink inwards revealing empty hollow sockets as his face becomes skull like but with tentacles that flail around the sides as they wriggle in the air, his features elongating and warping into a visage that belongs not in the world of mortals or gods, but in the space between, in the forgotten corners of fear itself.
The berserkers, caught in the throes of their frenzy, are abruptly slammed into sobriety by the horror that rises before them. Their screams are no longer of battle-lust but of primal terror. "WHAT IN THE NAME OF HELHEIM IS THAT THING?!" one bellows, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
They stumble, trip over their feet, their weapons clattering to the ground forgotten as they turn to flee. They scatter like leaves before a tempest, desperate to escape the presence of the eldritch entity that Erick has become.
Freya, from her vantage point, watches the display, a witness to Erick's true might. And even she, a goddess of war and magic, feels a shiver trace the column of her spine. Erick's monstrous form is a testament to the ancient and unknowable power he possesses, a power that can unhinge the minds and courage of even the fiercest warriors.
The clearing falls silent once more, the echoes of the berserkers' terror lingering like mist as Erick, the being of chaos and cosmos, stands alone amid the trees.
The monstrous apparition that once stood where Erick was begins to recede, the swirling chaos and terrifying tendrils retracting as though being pulled back into an invisible sheath. The air, once thick with the tangible presence of otherworldly horror, lightens as Erick reforms into the shape of a man.
He walks back to where Freya sits, the calm of his human façade settling over the clearing like a soothing balm after the storm of his true nature had raged. With a grace that belies the terror he just unleashed, he resumes his seat, his demeanor as serene as if he had merely shooed away a bothersome fly rather than revealing a sliver of the cosmic dread he embodies.
"Yeah," he says simply, a small acknowledgment of the chaos he'd just controlled. "That's just the tip of the iceberg compared to the horrors I can manifest as." The casual tone of his voice contrasts starkly with the profound statement he makes, hinting at depths of power that even the gods might fear to tread.
Freya, her composure as a goddess intact but her perception forever altered, now looks upon Erick not just as a singular enigma but as a compendium of living nightmares, a being whose restraint is all that stands between reality and realms of unfathomable terror.
Freya watches Erick, her eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and a newfound understanding. She considers the entity before her — no longer just a man, but a being who has walked through the ages untouched, yet not unmarked by the passage of time and the weight of memories.
"What will you do now? Where will your path lead you next?" she asks, her voice tempered with the wisdom of a deity who knows the value of reflection in the wake of revelation.
Erick gazes into the distance, his eyes holding the faintest glimmer of the worlds he's seen. "I think I'll stay for a while," he muses, the tone of his voice carrying a hint of melancholy for the paths of the past that are now set in stone. "I want to reflect on what could have been with Faye and me... the life we might have shared."
He turns to Freya, a genuine warmth surfacing in his eyes. "And if you would permit it, I'd like to speak with you again. I enjoy your company, Freya." His request is humble, an offering of companionship from one ancient being to another, a shared solace in the midst of lives so vastly different yet intertwined by the threads of fate.
Freya nods, a gesture of acceptance and mutual recognition. "I would welcome that, Erick," she replies, granting him the sanctuary of her presence. "There is much we might learn from each other."
In this quiet accord, a new alliance is formed, one not of power or dominion, but of shared existence and the understanding that comes from standing on the precipice of the unknown, gazing out at the infinite possibilities that the universe holds.