User:Micah

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Micah Fjordson

-Before-

Micah Fjordsong, son of Jurgen Fjordsong, of the Clan Shieldcrasher. That is his name and that is who he is, his ancestry one of tribal barbarism from somewhere where there is always cold and little sunlight is known. He and his people are a folk of pallid skin and hair like rust with eyes as green as the murky of fetid swamps. They are proud and strong, fearless in battle and rautious in celebration. Honor is a thing won by the edge of a sword and kept by a well-timed thrust, fame and glory belong to those who would laugh in the face of dragons or charge headlong into a horde of enraged trolls. These are the people that Micah Fjordsong loves above all others and these are the people who would call Micah a monster, exiling him from the fatherlands to walk as an honorless morðingi; a harsh word coming from a people who claim their prizes through the bloody defeat of others.

Micah was of the innrásarmaður caste, those raised with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other with bodies clad in armor. To those that he would call battle-brothers, a sizeable scar and a story of victory were as great a prize as any amount of gold or good. Micah was proud to call them his kin and proud to march against rival clans, trained to be merciless in battle and as vicious without weapons as he was with. These were the masters of combat whose howls and chants echoing from beyond the fog of cold were the stuff of nightmares. In battle, all things were accepted save for a very simple rule. One did not take the life of the unarmed or the defenseless, there was no glory in it. Any woman who did not, herself, fight, was a grand trophy and children could be trained to replace the numbers lost in a worthy fight but their blood was a blight upon a man's honor.

The caves where no one dared go, the places where once had been a place of vile worship to fel beasts and wicked magics. These were the proving grounds and at the same time, the place none had the courage to actually venture. Many would claim to have journied the depths of those caverns for a little bit of drunken glory but no man was fool enough to go forth into those darkened holes. Micah wanted to claim the title of Orrustan Drottinn, the moniker of the clan's warlord that had not been held by any for decades. It was the sort of honor that would make any Shieldcrasher crazed enough to do any sort of fool's errand. The caves were confusing though, and full of whispers that would mislead the mind. Micah became lost within the forbidden stoney halls and it was within those frigid depths that he met Brjálæði.

Brjálæði was a voice but it was a voice with such power that pressure of its presence brought Micah to his knees. This voice made promises of unheard of strength and ferocity in battle, the sort of vicious might that would make all see that only he was worthy of the title that he sought. All Micah had to do was let Brjálæði in. Micah would be the master and the voice would be the dog, let loose of the kennel that was Micah's mind whenever he had need of Brjálæði's power. Micah foolishly agreed and the pact was struck.

The first battle that Micah used his newfound power during was the stuff of horrors, blood soaked the snow and homes burned. Too many people died to Micah's mindless frenzy and the fires that seethed from his flesh, some of his own clan or of more innocent castes. When Micah yanked control back from Brjálæði, he was greeted with the disgusted faces of those that he had once called family and friend. Brjálæði laughed and mocked within Micah's skull as Micah's people denied him as kin and clansman. As saddening as it was to leave them behind, Micah felt an odd thrill and a thirst deep within him to let brjálæði out of the cage again soon. And Brjálæði was all to happy to oblige to Micah's beckoned call whenever Micah had need of that strength with its vile mantra.

"Strip the flesh, salt the wound, grind the corpse, cook the meat, eat the body!"

-Now-

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