Ghost of Yggdra

 

 

The glistening of the fresh snow on the ground made the forest look as if though covered in diamonds.  I can see my breath clearly as I trudge through the snow with my realm mates.

 

It was a new day, we had just finished completing our quests, and after many long seasons in Midgard’s finest dungeons, we opted to try the dangers of the frontier.  Many tales of wealth and power come from those who have survived and prospered there. 

 

Our destination was a camp of the undead, remnants of a group of invaders that tried to conqueror Midgard, but met their deaths at the hand of many a Norseman hammer.  My mate, a Kobold archer, stood next to me.  I promptly told him to scout the tree line for any invaders, knowing once in a great while a prominent sniper gets past our guard patrols.

 

We continue our trudging, and notice the temperature rise as the clouds gather, snow, good I thought…snow is peaceful and will hide us better.

 

When I was younger, there was a tale that was told to young trolls, the Ghost of Yggdra, supposedly a fallen Invader who was in love with a Norsewoman, but alas, he was slain in the forest with the others of his realm. 

 

Love is stronger that death.

 

So intense, that he was cursed by his own gods to wander the forest in search of his love and to slaughter his would be killers. As children we were very scared, but as we matured we generally laughed it off as a way for the big trolls to keep us little trolls out of Yggdra.

 

The fog rolls in, the snow begins to drop, the sky darkens.

 

So my mates and me trudge along more, the 4 of us, with our Hunter scouting for us.  We howl the signal for him, no response.  My hunches say he either has wandered off killing on his own (bad kobold) or some mishap has befallen our friend.

 

We crest the hill, blood everywhere…our friend lies on the ground with gapping wounds, steam rolls from his cuts.   Our friend is coughing up his last breaths of life, as the blood slowly drools from his mouth.

 

“The ghost….silver…”

 

The wounds on our friend seem to be of the piercing type, large holes, swift and clean.  I look around, no tracks…

 

“We must get back to the fort!”

 

Quickly we run towards the road towards the fort, through the trees, the fog obscuring my vision, one of our mates, a Norseman lags behind.

 

“Wait! Stop!” he yells.

 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiinggg.  Thump!

 

“I’ve been hit!”

 

Quickly we run towards the sound of his voice.

 

“Aiiiyeee!”

 

The horror we see before us is unspeakable, into the clearing of trees, the fogs seems to clear for a bit revealing the blood splattered ground.  There standing, a shining Knight wearing a black cloak, gruesomely with our impaled friend dangling on the end of his pike high in the air.

 

Fear strikes me, the legend is true.  Our dwarf charges, going berserk. The sight of our fallen comrade sliding off the end of his pike enrages him

.

 

The fight ensues; the ghostly knight parries with amazing speed the attacks of the dwarf.

 

Swwimmp! Ching! Chang! Swimmmp!

 

The dwarf takes near fatal blows, but is prevailed as our healer calls down from heaven the healing powers. The ghostly knight is relentless, he does not tire, does not bleed.  So our dwarf comrade is impaled and tossed to the side like a rag doll.

 

The healer draws his hammer.

 

Thump! Wiff! Wiff!

 

The knight sweeps with his pike, causing the dwarf to tumble over, face first in the red snow. The healer looks up, only to see the end of the pike going through his back, through his body, his soul into the soil in which will be his grave.

 

I run.

 

Confused, scared, shocked.  I run like the wind, hoping the fog and show will hide me, hoping I will perhaps fall to my death, rather face such a gruesome death.

 

Dead end.

 

I turn around; the Knight is walking towards me, cleaning his pike.  He thrusts it into the ground.  He removes his helm.

 

He is a man.

 

I call upon Odin’s might to give me strength to die bravely, I un-strap my hammer from my back and get myself into an attack stance.

 

The Knight salutes me.

 

I charge, knowing that this will be the day I die, that I will die bravely.

 

Wiff! Wiff! Sching!

 

I am cut, bleeding.  The knight backs away.

 

He salutes, the points into the forest.  He is gone.

 

I follow to where he has pointed, and soon see the familiar walls of our border fort.  To this day I will not know.  I do know the ghost is a man, and a man bleeds, thus he can be killed.

 

One day I shall have my vengeance.