Taylor does a VALHALLA!
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Preface
1 - Choosing
It was a still moment, an immortal sliver of time that was disturbed only by the summer breeze passing through the canopies of trees that populated the grove, where Fortuna gazed upon the broken form of mankind's savior.
Khepri had receded for a moment, as the death of the Warrior had rippled through the shard network - and none were as severely affected as the Queen Administrator, who had processed the entire load of the network.
Its faculties were further burdened with its incomplete merge with Taylor Hebert, its host for the last few years.
Fortuna was divided on Taylor's matter.
On the one hand - she was, like many, a victim of Cauldron's plans, as well as their broken existence on Earth Bet.
A planet aware of its borrowed time.
On the other hand, the Shard's gift of power showed immense mettle, a will to make the hard calls, phenomenal tactical acumen and unflinching determination.
When faced with the corruption of her sense of self by the hand of an unstable biokinetic who had strayed before, and a biotinker so infamous her name was whispered with dread, she chose to sacrifice herself for mankind.
And here she was, pointing a pistol at her head.
The Path she'd run merely stated that the last step to ending the entities' threat to mankind was to point the gun at Taylor's head and pull the trigger.
A further moment passed, and she could not resist expressing her complex emotions in a last farewell.
"We're all so small, in the end."
Which was when a blade sprouted from her sternum.
Contessa, Fortuna, That Scary Hat Lady, had only a brief moment of shock before her nervous system had gone haywire, knocking her out in the process in a last attempt to preserve her brain functions.
The last thing she saw was, oddly enough, winged feminine figures.
It was a strange conclave that gathered around the fallen figures.
Upon Contessa's still-warm body, a three-eyed raven had alighted - and had begun feasting on small morsels of heart-flesh.
A short figure, splendid and feminine, had given the avian's impromptu meal a derisive snort, before directing compassionate care for the fallen, armor-clad warrior.
Her platinum-blonde tresses had hidden both their faces, not unlike the privacy screens of a hospital bed.
Another figure, statuesque and proud, busied herself with cleansing a long-bladed spear of the heartblood belonging to the raven's latest snack. She regarded her battle-sister's actions with cold interest, the act of giving care to the wounded visibly less appealing to her in comparison to smiting down the coward and profane.
A cold gust had thrown her long, midnight-black ponytail to the wind.
Approaching the two was an imperious figure clad in shining silver armor.
Her high cheeks, erect stature, and perfectly balanced clash of feminine beauty and the honed edge of a battle-forged blade stirred the hearts of many, and her billowing mane of white, pure as the most virginal of snows, had captured the hearts of many a skalds and scoundrels.
The dark-haired woman addressed her kneeling compatriot.
"Eir, do take note of the rest of Midgard for a brief moment - her highness approaches, and she looks positively thunderous."
The prone woman, Eir, spared a moment from her charge to direct a disapproving glare at her compatriot.
"Must you tease her so, Herja? Were I ignorant of your history, I would assume you were either on a quest for death most painful, or completely infatuated with her."
Herja merely snorted, and continued attending her implement of death.
"Eir, Herja - well met."
The two turned their gaze to the third woman, giving a curt nod in respect - albeit grudgingly on Herja's part.
"Reginleif - well met."
The woman in question nodded, taking in the sight of the aftermath.
Coming to a decision, she addressed the kneeling Eir.
"Sister - how fares the champion?"
The caretaker shook her head in frustration.
"None of my magicks seem to stimulate her flesh, and the Runes seem to… refuse to touch her soul - if her retrieval is the Allfather's will, she must be brought before him, for his judgment."
Herja narrowed her eyes.
"Bothering the Allfather with this bare slip of a girl-child? What has our pride come to? Will we be collecting virginal flower-maidens from the nearest shrine to the Allmother, too? Perhaps the Hall could use a few garlands?"
Eir parted her lips to answer, but was cut off by Reginleif.
"Still your tongue, Herja - such is the will of the Allfather, and the guidance of the Norns. Dare you question them, and suffer the consequences of your insults, or shall your transgression scatter in Midgard's winds to fall off the edge of the world, never to be seen again?"
Hearing the undertone of the last sentence seemed to reach past Herja's practiced mien of hostile disinterest, bringing forth an abashed face and a silent nod.
"Then, let us be off."
Reginleif placed two long, delicate fingers to her full lips, and whistled a brief tune.
Momentarily, hooves came stomping down from the horizon atop a simmering, multicolor path.
"Ivar, over here!"
The new arrival, a boar the size of a raft, came to a stop before Reginleif, giving her outstretched palm an enthused nuzzle.
"Herja, Eir - load her on a litter and place her in the carriage; I shall ride Ivar on our return. Make haste."
The two nodded, and Herja seemed relieved - She'd upset the animal earlier and still had not made amends; being tossed overboard amid the Bifrost was a nasty way to go, and under no circumstance would she allow her death to come by an irate side of bacon.
Soon, the silk-clad warrior was tressed in cloth and leather, secured to the wooden carriage pulled by the ponderous porcine, and off they were, departing in a rainbow flash and leaving behind naught but a corpse and a smattering of pristine, white feathers billowing in the wind.
The raven raised its head from the gash of Contessa's chest, and cackled.
Pride always came before the fall, and its eye had seen He had not.
The pool at his feet rippled with the aftershocks.
Only a few moments ago, did he see these very waters drawn from the heart of Yggdrasil foam and bubble like the darkest cauldron in the dankest hole at the bottom of the earth - and yet, the events it showed were even worse.
He and his were of the battle - bathed in blood, nursed by conflict, and forged in adversity.
But what had taken place in Midgard was no battle, no fight, no duel nor even a war;
It was a slaughter.
Some thirty, forty years ago, a dramatic shift had taken place in the realm of man - death became more prevalent, and often it was a violent struggle that preceded it.
Considering the blood that the humans had shed not only forty years ago, and the horrors they unveiled upon each other, for that very peace?
Truly baffling.
Then the sons of man manifested abilities.
Powers that seemed at times random, though always geared towards conflict, appeared to them at their lowest - and like a cornered animal, they rampaged as they struck back.
A slip of a girl cornered and laid bare for three men's deranged pleasure suddenly gained the ability to turn a city into so much blood sausage, by sheer will over their very own grand works of glass.
Another became nigh invincible, able to withstand all but the harshest conditions.
Yet more brought forth great and terrible creations that inspired even the mightiest of Dwarven craft-masters, sending them into their smithing halls often grumbling as creation possessed their minds.
And then, came the beasts.
He believed that binding his son's abomination by Gleipnir had brought an end to their fears.
He was wrong.
It was not the first of his mistakes;
Believing that no harm could come from throwing that miniscule worm into the ocean, straight out of the birthing offal of its mother-jotun, proved diametrically false as the beast grew to encircle the world.
Often, it would make passes at his own when they passed the waters, and batter the shores and shake the ground as it moved its ponderous girth.
His son's abomination had been another mistake he let live, out of mercy for his son, but now it was all too clear he should've impaled it upon Gungnir when it was blind and meek.
The runt of that accursed litter, had been the greatest surprise, though;
The deformed waif had taken her "gifted" demesne and proved to be a capable administrator - and more importantly, lacking any ambition for her betters' positions.
But with such monstrosities upon Midgard, the children of man fell like flies in a thunderstorm.
He had contemplated helping them - but in the end, fear for his own held his hands back; for the Norns had foretold their world's end and they had not proven wrong yet.
Now, after the false avatar had fallen, his choosers soon swept down to Midgard to make their picks - and while many were worthy, none who possessed those abilities he so desired at his command had answered the call.
It was as if his emissaries could not, were not permitted to lay their hands upon those children of man.
Reluctantly, he opened his Eye, and saw.
From each of them, a golden thread had woven, and like a massive, world-spanning spider's web all threads led to a single center.
A grove, and a girl.
Decision made in a snapshot, he directed his chosen emissary and her cohort to make the choosing - She would not be given this one, no way no how.
He watched with bated breath as the planeswalker lined up her shot, and his mouth turned upwards in pleasure as Herja felled her.
He nodded in absent satisfaction and Eir had cared for the champion - she would last until Idunn's gifts could recover her.
That she would be bound to His realm, and alongside her, her vassals?
Why, such twists of fate are the domains of the Norns and known to the Runes alone.
He frowned mildly at Reginleif - the girl would be reminded soon of her responsibilities.
A one, two, three tap of Gungnir's butt on the ground by his throne resounded across asgard, and soon, all would come.
Odin has declared court will be held, after all.
It was with Heimdall's call that Reginleif's party and their charge had arrived at the Hall of the Slain.
Ivar had been fettered outside, while Herja and Eir carried the litter, their group led by their leader.
The Valkyries cut an impressive figure, polished plate and scale over oiled leather contrasted with snow-pure skin, framed by pure-white wings - it was not without reason that to this day, the children of man envisioned the emissaries of the divine as winged beings.
The three had laid the litter before his throne, and fell to one knee, their spears set to their sides on the floor.
"Well-met, fair choosers," he started; "How fared your quest?"
The words, spoken a thousand thousand times before, gave leave for the three to speak in his presence.
"Well-met, Allfather - we are pleased to report our quest as complete. We present to you, the chosen champion."
Giving a half-nod to Reginleif, he pushed the Valkyries out of his thoughts in favor of the waif upon the litter.
Such a small little thing had felled a God? It almost seems preposterous.
Motioning with his hand, runes sprang to life amid the air, surrounding the waif and levitating her to an upright position.
Another wave levitated a slice of Idunn's gift, minced so as to be easily swallowed, into her mouth.
The waif shimmered gold, once, twice, thrice, and opened her eyes.
Then everything went to Hellheim.
Khepri had receded for a moment, as the death of the Warrior had rippled through the shard network - and none were as severely affected as the Queen Administrator, who had processed the entire load of the network.
Its faculties were further burdened with its incomplete merge with Taylor Hebert, its host for the last few years.
Fortuna was divided on Taylor's matter.
On the one hand - she was, like many, a victim of Cauldron's plans, as well as their broken existence on Earth Bet.
A planet aware of its borrowed time.
On the other hand, the Shard's gift of power showed immense mettle, a will to make the hard calls, phenomenal tactical acumen and unflinching determination.
When faced with the corruption of her sense of self by the hand of an unstable biokinetic who had strayed before, and a biotinker so infamous her name was whispered with dread, she chose to sacrifice herself for mankind.
And here she was, pointing a pistol at her head.
The Path she'd run merely stated that the last step to ending the entities' threat to mankind was to point the gun at Taylor's head and pull the trigger.
A further moment passed, and she could not resist expressing her complex emotions in a last farewell.
"We're all so small, in the end."
Which was when a blade sprouted from her sternum.
Contessa, Fortuna, That Scary Hat Lady, had only a brief moment of shock before her nervous system had gone haywire, knocking her out in the process in a last attempt to preserve her brain functions.
The last thing she saw was, oddly enough, winged feminine figures.
—WWW—
It was a strange conclave that gathered around the fallen figures.
Upon Contessa's still-warm body, a three-eyed raven had alighted - and had begun feasting on small morsels of heart-flesh.
A short figure, splendid and feminine, had given the avian's impromptu meal a derisive snort, before directing compassionate care for the fallen, armor-clad warrior.
Her platinum-blonde tresses had hidden both their faces, not unlike the privacy screens of a hospital bed.
Another figure, statuesque and proud, busied herself with cleansing a long-bladed spear of the heartblood belonging to the raven's latest snack. She regarded her battle-sister's actions with cold interest, the act of giving care to the wounded visibly less appealing to her in comparison to smiting down the coward and profane.
A cold gust had thrown her long, midnight-black ponytail to the wind.
Approaching the two was an imperious figure clad in shining silver armor.
Her high cheeks, erect stature, and perfectly balanced clash of feminine beauty and the honed edge of a battle-forged blade stirred the hearts of many, and her billowing mane of white, pure as the most virginal of snows, had captured the hearts of many a skalds and scoundrels.
The dark-haired woman addressed her kneeling compatriot.
"Eir, do take note of the rest of Midgard for a brief moment - her highness approaches, and she looks positively thunderous."
The prone woman, Eir, spared a moment from her charge to direct a disapproving glare at her compatriot.
"Must you tease her so, Herja? Were I ignorant of your history, I would assume you were either on a quest for death most painful, or completely infatuated with her."
Herja merely snorted, and continued attending her implement of death.
"Eir, Herja - well met."
The two turned their gaze to the third woman, giving a curt nod in respect - albeit grudgingly on Herja's part.
"Reginleif - well met."
The woman in question nodded, taking in the sight of the aftermath.
Coming to a decision, she addressed the kneeling Eir.
"Sister - how fares the champion?"
The caretaker shook her head in frustration.
"None of my magicks seem to stimulate her flesh, and the Runes seem to… refuse to touch her soul - if her retrieval is the Allfather's will, she must be brought before him, for his judgment."
Herja narrowed her eyes.
"Bothering the Allfather with this bare slip of a girl-child? What has our pride come to? Will we be collecting virginal flower-maidens from the nearest shrine to the Allmother, too? Perhaps the Hall could use a few garlands?"
Eir parted her lips to answer, but was cut off by Reginleif.
"Still your tongue, Herja - such is the will of the Allfather, and the guidance of the Norns. Dare you question them, and suffer the consequences of your insults, or shall your transgression scatter in Midgard's winds to fall off the edge of the world, never to be seen again?"
Hearing the undertone of the last sentence seemed to reach past Herja's practiced mien of hostile disinterest, bringing forth an abashed face and a silent nod.
"Then, let us be off."
Reginleif placed two long, delicate fingers to her full lips, and whistled a brief tune.
Momentarily, hooves came stomping down from the horizon atop a simmering, multicolor path.
"Ivar, over here!"
The new arrival, a boar the size of a raft, came to a stop before Reginleif, giving her outstretched palm an enthused nuzzle.
"Herja, Eir - load her on a litter and place her in the carriage; I shall ride Ivar on our return. Make haste."
The two nodded, and Herja seemed relieved - She'd upset the animal earlier and still had not made amends; being tossed overboard amid the Bifrost was a nasty way to go, and under no circumstance would she allow her death to come by an irate side of bacon.
Soon, the silk-clad warrior was tressed in cloth and leather, secured to the wooden carriage pulled by the ponderous porcine, and off they were, departing in a rainbow flash and leaving behind naught but a corpse and a smattering of pristine, white feathers billowing in the wind.
The raven raised its head from the gash of Contessa's chest, and cackled.
Pride always came before the fall, and its eye had seen He had not.
—WWW—
The pool at his feet rippled with the aftershocks.
Only a few moments ago, did he see these very waters drawn from the heart of Yggdrasil foam and bubble like the darkest cauldron in the dankest hole at the bottom of the earth - and yet, the events it showed were even worse.
He and his were of the battle - bathed in blood, nursed by conflict, and forged in adversity.
But what had taken place in Midgard was no battle, no fight, no duel nor even a war;
It was a slaughter.
Some thirty, forty years ago, a dramatic shift had taken place in the realm of man - death became more prevalent, and often it was a violent struggle that preceded it.
Considering the blood that the humans had shed not only forty years ago, and the horrors they unveiled upon each other, for that very peace?
Truly baffling.
Then the sons of man manifested abilities.
Powers that seemed at times random, though always geared towards conflict, appeared to them at their lowest - and like a cornered animal, they rampaged as they struck back.
A slip of a girl cornered and laid bare for three men's deranged pleasure suddenly gained the ability to turn a city into so much blood sausage, by sheer will over their very own grand works of glass.
Another became nigh invincible, able to withstand all but the harshest conditions.
Yet more brought forth great and terrible creations that inspired even the mightiest of Dwarven craft-masters, sending them into their smithing halls often grumbling as creation possessed their minds.
And then, came the beasts.
He believed that binding his son's abomination by Gleipnir had brought an end to their fears.
He was wrong.
It was not the first of his mistakes;
Believing that no harm could come from throwing that miniscule worm into the ocean, straight out of the birthing offal of its mother-jotun, proved diametrically false as the beast grew to encircle the world.
Often, it would make passes at his own when they passed the waters, and batter the shores and shake the ground as it moved its ponderous girth.
His son's abomination had been another mistake he let live, out of mercy for his son, but now it was all too clear he should've impaled it upon Gungnir when it was blind and meek.
The runt of that accursed litter, had been the greatest surprise, though;
The deformed waif had taken her "gifted" demesne and proved to be a capable administrator - and more importantly, lacking any ambition for her betters' positions.
But with such monstrosities upon Midgard, the children of man fell like flies in a thunderstorm.
He had contemplated helping them - but in the end, fear for his own held his hands back; for the Norns had foretold their world's end and they had not proven wrong yet.
Now, after the false avatar had fallen, his choosers soon swept down to Midgard to make their picks - and while many were worthy, none who possessed those abilities he so desired at his command had answered the call.
It was as if his emissaries could not, were not permitted to lay their hands upon those children of man.
Reluctantly, he opened his Eye, and saw.
From each of them, a golden thread had woven, and like a massive, world-spanning spider's web all threads led to a single center.
A grove, and a girl.
Decision made in a snapshot, he directed his chosen emissary and her cohort to make the choosing - She would not be given this one, no way no how.
He watched with bated breath as the planeswalker lined up her shot, and his mouth turned upwards in pleasure as Herja felled her.
He nodded in absent satisfaction and Eir had cared for the champion - she would last until Idunn's gifts could recover her.
That she would be bound to His realm, and alongside her, her vassals?
Why, such twists of fate are the domains of the Norns and known to the Runes alone.
He frowned mildly at Reginleif - the girl would be reminded soon of her responsibilities.
A one, two, three tap of Gungnir's butt on the ground by his throne resounded across asgard, and soon, all would come.
Odin has declared court will be held, after all.
—WWW—
It was with Heimdall's call that Reginleif's party and their charge had arrived at the Hall of the Slain.
Ivar had been fettered outside, while Herja and Eir carried the litter, their group led by their leader.
The Valkyries cut an impressive figure, polished plate and scale over oiled leather contrasted with snow-pure skin, framed by pure-white wings - it was not without reason that to this day, the children of man envisioned the emissaries of the divine as winged beings.
The three had laid the litter before his throne, and fell to one knee, their spears set to their sides on the floor.
"Well-met, fair choosers," he started; "How fared your quest?"
The words, spoken a thousand thousand times before, gave leave for the three to speak in his presence.
"Well-met, Allfather - we are pleased to report our quest as complete. We present to you, the chosen champion."
Giving a half-nod to Reginleif, he pushed the Valkyries out of his thoughts in favor of the waif upon the litter.
Such a small little thing had felled a God? It almost seems preposterous.
Motioning with his hand, runes sprang to life amid the air, surrounding the waif and levitating her to an upright position.
Another wave levitated a slice of Idunn's gift, minced so as to be easily swallowed, into her mouth.
The waif shimmered gold, once, twice, thrice, and opened her eyes.
Then everything went to Hellheim.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"Are you the Empire 88+++?"
"No, mortal, we are-"
"You look like it to me."
*Beeeeeeeeees!
"No, mortal, we are-"
"You look like it to me."
*Beeeeeeeeees!
I am appalled that at this point, there is no "DOCTOR BEES!" crossover that I am aware of.
Isiri Pudireach
Predictive text can go duck itself
Reminds me of a (I think Korean) Webnovel I read a while back, where the MC was a world class MMO player that won all the tournaments. He died of a heart attack after securing victory and got picked up by a Valkyrie. The power system they used made it so that you get powers from tales about you, so he basically became his game character.
Sauce? I mean, you remember the name?
Isiri Pudireach
Predictive text can go duck itself
It was Valhalla Saga. Found it originally through Novel Updates.