So I was trying to write my college essays, but I got distracted and started thinking about Vikings and some other stuff, and this showed up. Doesn't have anything to do with Pokemon though. I think I meant it to be longer. Yay.


The tent was short, crowded, and smelly. It was filled up by a host of brutish men, covered in thick black skins, sweat and blood. The stench of the animals on the mens' backs still hung in the air, along with something wet and foreboding wafting from the outside, and the mead-stained breath of the invisible, but apparent anxiety. Salty blood and sweat dripped everywhere, spraying around like a shaking dog’s bath whenever one man shifted nervously.

The tent was supposed to hold forty or so men comfortably, but had twice as many now. The men were like ogres; everything about them was bid. Their heavy leather pads, massive gingery beards, and cold steel axes hammers were all simply large, only adding to the cramped, dreary atmosphere of the tent.

A crash resounded above the pack of men’s heads, cutting through the low rumble of gruff voices, and igniting the nervous static inside every man. Rain began to roll over the canvas roof, thundering like a thousand horses charging over head. Theodoric, the greatest and largest, began to growl. It started low but grew into a furious yelp. The man threw his head back and howled skyward. How dare the rain show its power? How dare the rain challenge his power? Theodoric the Wise had accepted that challenge.

Slowly, his growl ceased. “Men!” he roared holding his rusty bloodstained axe in the air like a god’s golden scepter, making the massive men in front him flinch. The smell of mead and blood washed over the entire tent. “Tonigh’ we kill! We kill everythin’ tha’ moves. Everythin’ tha’ breathes. Everythin’ tha’ isn’t worthy enough to call himself a Vikin’ has better line up ta die. The earth had better be redder than Mars tonigh’!” The crowd howled in delight.

Except one unremarkable man who stood near to Theodoric. He stood silent and unmoving; whether it was because he did not understand or because he was nervous, it could not be known. He slowly opened his gaping mouth and whispered, “Tha’s suicide.” The tent went silent and he was promptly cleaved in two.

Theodoric snorted and growled as his murdered comrade’s blood splattered over his golden beard and the light grey wolf’s shirt he wore. The men around him said nothing. Nobody grieved, nobody cried. Nobody acknowledged the act at all. Only the rain changed, flashing lightning and roaring thunder in protest. Theodoric grunted. “Let’s go.” He parted the sea of men and they followed him out of the tent.

The bog that Theodoric stood in was wet. The ground was slosh and the rain poured down relentlessly, yet it was still nothing for the Viking. He viewed it as if the sea had come to encourage him. He walked forward as his brutes filled out of the tent behind him. He smiled, curling his bloodshot eyes upward and baring his pyrite colored teeth. He inhaled deeply, sucking in the outside air, a smell that was, for now, just the bog’s own stench; just dirt, trees and rain, nothing man-made entwined within it.

The bog was on a small hillside. It charged down from the peak, quickly drying and becoming a grassy valley with a fat little town, and then sweeping back up a hillside, sprouting trees and slush and careening over the crest of the hills behind the town and out of sight.

Lightning flashed threateningly behind Theodoric, as he grunted. His bloodshot eyes widened, as if the lightning gave him strength. He felt powerful. He felt immortal. He felt like Thor. Theodoric roared an incomprehensible sound, raised his axe in the air, began to race down the hillside, and was struck in between the eyes with a cold steel arrow that seemed to fall from the sky. The men began to roar as well, and the thundering of rain and the crashes of lightning drowned out any other sound. He kept moving down the mountain, and his men followed, screaming and raising their weapons. They quickly overtook Theodoric, who had ceased to yell. The rain whipped his blood shot eyes clean, and knocked his axe into the slush. He still lumbered on forward, each step heavier and more cumbersome that the last, as if his legs were having a hard time realizing that the man they carried was already dead.