Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9041013-20181011202229

A sea of Danes under the command of one man they call Ivar The Boneless, a crippled warlord that cannot walk on his own two feet, bashed their mass against the gates of York. Fighting with all of their might to capture the city.

They’ve managed to push the gates open but the Saxon defenders refused to relinquish their hold on the gates.

A great skirmish ensued at the gates of York, where one Dane named Garm struck down Saxon after Saxon until the defenders of the city realized that the mighty Norseman before them was a great threat, and thus they isolated Garm from his Norse companions and initiated a group assault on the great man.

First, they cut off his arm, but as his limb hit the ground and a stream of blood began to pour from the wound, Garm flew into a great frenzy during which he began swinging his sword like a rabid animal. Roaring as he sought to tear through the Saxons that had harmed him so greatly.

Ignoring the smoldering pain emanating severed arm, he screamed in a foul tongue that the Saxons could not bear to hear as he swung his weapon wildly, seemingly enjoying himself on the brink of death.

Frantically dodging the great Dane’s swings, a Saxon warrior by the name of Cuthwulf managed to roll behind the massive Dane and struck at his back, dropping the heathen to a single knee. In a moment’s pass, Garm began to rise to his feet once more, causing great terror to sink into the hearts of the Saxon warriors surrounding him.

Before he could get up to his feet, Garms massive frame was struck by a barrage of javelins from beyond the gates of York. Even with half a dozen javelin shafts lodged in his core, Garm refused to go down, appearing as a superhuman monster to the Saxons in front of him, causing them to set up their fabled shield wall formation. The mighty Dane maintained his balance until a single arrow struck him in the eye sending his body recoiling backward onto the ground.

The Saxons cheered on as their foe had finally fallen, but their joy was cut short by the violent charge led by The Boneless himself. The crippled prince slashed and stabbed at any and all Saxons on his deathly path into the city.

Garm laid on the ground, swimming in his own blood, as the crimson substance drained from his body, Garm began to smile. He found happiness in the success of his brethren in arms. More so, he found happiness in knowing that he was going to be plucked out of the battlefield and straight to Valhalla by the Valkyrie.

The screams of battle slowly faded from the ears of Garm, and the sight of the blue sky above him began to take a shade of grey only to lose slowly all color and turn into a black canvas that hung above him. Pain surged through his body, he had never experienced so much pain before. Garm tried to scream, but no sound seemed to come out of his mouth.

Garm did not see any winged warrior maidens approach him from the distance, nor did he hear the roaring of the Einherjar fighting and feasting in the Hall of the slain all the while his pain had grown so visceral he could not bear it any longer.

Once there was nothing but darkness and pain left for Garm, he began panicking. The most basal kind of fear gripped at his last ounces of consciousness. Garm began yelling in his mind, he was screaming for help from the gods, but help never came. There was only fear that ate at him, tearing him apart bit by bit from the inside out. The Aesir and Vanir had left their servant to float in a sea of primordial nothingness.

Garm’s fear continued consumed everything, and soon enough he found himself unable to feel a thing, not even his pain. Only his thoughts remained with him, but they too were slipping away.

The Dane could not recall anything in the world of the living anymore, not even his own reflection or name.

All he had left was fear, pure and utter fear.

In his last moments, when he was yet still capable of thought, Garm mused to himself, “Is this it? Is there nothing to the stories of a great hall with endless feasts and battles? Was this all a lie? Please, Alfather, tell me it’s not so! Please don’t me fade away... It’s so cold in here, and dark, I cannot feel a thing Alfather… Please don’t let me fade… I beg thy…”

As the battle for York raged on, a single dying Dane whose body was riddled in arrows raised his arm, weakly pointing it to the sky he muttered under his dying breath, "D-Don’t… die… It.. t… t’s… A… ll… a… lie… The gods… they are a damned lie…” 