Asgaard’s Final Quest

Fevered Mutterings v1: November 2004.

An early sign that I wasn’t cut out for Real Life.

……….

Asgaard clambered over the final ichor-streaked boulder.

The last vicious Blood-Wyyrm lay behind him, innards strewn akimbo across the cold rock-cut passage floor. He had taken a fearful bite upon the thigh, but he shrugged it off with the weary practice of a man shrugging off many hardships through life. Briefly his upbringing, so far away in the balmy sun-kissed rural lands of Yrrkshur, swam before his eyes, and a lump formed in his throat as he remembered worrying the sheep and mucking out the stables on his father’s farm, before Yrxgrlknx the Unpronounceable raided the farmsteads and Asgaard became a bitter orphan.

‘Now look at me’, he thought wonderingly. The muscles jostled across his arms, toned and built through years of hard training with the Screaming Warrior Monks of Gn. Around his sturdy brow, under the mop of black hair with the curious grey streak that had come after his cataclysmic battle with Yrxgrlknx and his Dark Mages of Hrrpic, the band of Dongl stirred and moaned with the arcane forces pulsing through it. With but a thought he could unleash power that could strip a man’s mind and body from him before he had a chance to use either. His powerfully-muscled thighs – ah yes, his quest for the Shield That Cannot Be Wot Of, in which he had to wade the entire 20-mile length of the River of the Effluvial Sumpwaters of Ars. He was scarred, terribly scarred, but no man could have endured such horrors and come away unmarked.

But now, 30 years down the line, his enemies were amassing. His mystic arts felt the summoning of dA’emons, the arcane wielding of magics that should not be wielded, all with one purpose: to send Asgaard stright to the under-kingdom of the Damned. Asgaard knew he was the best. Had he not severed the head of Fk the Unprintable using nothing but a deadly, expert flick of a Black Spatula? Had he not brought the corrupt magistrates of the town of Mylt-&-Keenes to their knees, sobbing and pleading for mercy? Had he not scaled the icy heights of Mount Baton dressed only in an enchanted loincloth? But now he was faced with his greatest and most potent foe, the only enemy to have faced Asgaard and lived – Black Lord Bastardon, Last of the Final Sorcerors of the Ultimate Age of the First And Final Epoch of Dark Sorcery at the End of the Beginning of All Things. At Lord Bastardon’s side, the banesword Hellstraw, drinker of souls (and occasionally mead), Harvester of Good, Quencher of Hope and Sucker of Manhoods. A terrible foe indeed.

But he had done it! He had traversed the Bile Cavern, slain the Blood-Wyyrms and beaten off the Tic of Leaping Death, and now nothing stood between him and the only hope he had of counteracting the fierce weapons of Lord Bastardon. The Sacred Armour of Y’nknip! The only force of Old Magic potent enough to balance the Black Lord’s malice.

As he brought his torch up to fill the cavern before him with warm, flickering light, a figure strode into view.

He had been warned of this.

Fla’a’’a the Wizard.

As a rule he distrusted wizards: they always had their head in a book, and Asgaard had no need for such distractions when he could flail and hew at evil things instead. They were also too old, or racked with consumptive ills, and Asgaard preferred the company of hearty, well-built men he could guffaw mightily with and quaff alongside on a regular basis.

And Fla’a’’a was a woman. In Asgaard’s busy and tortured life there had been little time for women, and he regarded them as strange creatures. On the number of occasions he had required a woman to provide covering fire with a wand, she had dropped it at a key moment, or held it the wrong way. And women always wore the most distracting armour that seemed to have been assembled with many of the parts missing, or various anatomical regions impractically emphasised. No – women were to be avoided.

Asgaard sneered, “Out of my way, weirding-woman.”

“Hold on. Yes, you’ve done well, noble warrior, you have crossed the formidable so on and so forth. Whatever. Personally, I’ve got better things to do, so let’s get this over with. There are a few things you need to be aware of….mmph”

Asgaard pushed past her, sending her sprawling.

There it was! Unearthly colours and illuminations rippled and gleamed across its jewel-encrusted length. The air tasted faintly of tin. Oh, the magic was strong, very strong – but was it strong enough for his needs? One way to find out! He dragged off his plate armour.

“No, listen, you steroid-enhanced prat, you have to make sure that…..”

Asgaard roared, “I KNOW MY BIRTHRIGHT, WOMAN. BE THEE QUIET!”

With Fla’a’’a protesting in his ears, Asgaard donned the sacred armour, fastening the straps snug to his mighty frame. Once he had finished there was one very long strap hanging loose, wound with wire, and to get it out the way he tucked it into his belt.

“No, you’ve got to…..”, Fla’a’’a protested.

Asgaard pushed past her again, eldritch magics flooding through his body. He bellowed with laughter. NOW let Lord Bastardon face him, because he was ready, yes, he was ready! Ahahahah!

He disappeared into the passage, heading for the surface.

Fla’a’’a shook her head. Muscle-brained moron. All that magic, it creates static energy. You need the Cable of Earthing to be trailing along the ground, or else…..

There was a distant boom, sending bat guano pattering down into the cavern.

Asgaard’s final quest was over.

Image: hans s.