Erik Altoffer

An ISTP

[flakk]

RAID - XI

The Anglo-Saxon lay there in the uncomfortable bed that had been hastily made before the two rented the tavern room for the night, he lay there still processing the events from earlier that day. Fortunately, the tavern keeper was grateful enough to the two for defending his daughter that evening that he discounted the charge of the room by half; only charging them only 7£. Aksel, who lay in the same bed beside him, was sound asleep; his knees pulled up in the fetal position, his arms interwoven in front of his neck.

This was exactly what Braum had been trying to avoid every night since they fled from East Anglia. He knew it would happen, for it does every night. He would lay down to rest; let the sweet kiss of slumber come and take him. It was then that his mind began racing with every memory he had from that day; every little detail, every small unimportant movement, everything he could’ve done to save his mother, everything he didn’t do. Every possible result of that split-second just before the strike fell, every possible move he was too scared to make, ‘You could’ve pushed her to the side…’ his mind would taunt him, ‘You could’ve taken the blow in her stead… You could have done literally anything el-!’.

Braum shot upward in their bed, breathing erratically, eyes widened. Aksels head raised slightly before realizing his friend had moved and fallen back down on the pillow. “Sorry…” Braum said sheepishly as he turned his feet out from under the quilt, his friend hadn’t heard him. Braum rested his face in his hands exhaling defeatedly, a single tear fell down his right cheek. He had had enough, he suddenly stood, and began dressing. Aksels figure turned to look inquisitively at Braum, “I’ll return” he said, donning his tunics. Aksel replied, “Lagi...”, setting his head back down on the bed.

Braum had dressed and moved out of their room door. It creaked as the hinged groaned in the pain of being abused for years. He walked down the hallway lit dimly by the light of several candles spaced out just enough for one to see where they were stepping. The wood under his feet moaned with his every other step. His steps brought him to the top of the staircase leading up from the dining area of the tavern. The Saxon was already making his way down the steps when he overheard two people casually conversing, “-Ose two from the fight today? They’re not from round’ ‘ere.”, Braum’s footfalls ceased halfway down the staircase, “Oh?” the second voice encouraged.

There was a short pause and Braum began moving once again, once his feet felt the ground supporting the stairs he could see the tavern keeper peeking around the corner of the bar at him, “‘Ello!”. His voice suddenly much less sinister and intimidating, Braum responded, “Ello…”, the keeper’s sight lingered on Braum for a moment too long before he realized that he wasn’t going to tell him what he was doing. Braum held his gaze, showing that he wouldn’t be influenced by him. The keeper busied himself with washing the wooden utensils and Braum moved to the entrance to the tavern at a slightly faster pace.

There were a few patrons still seated outside the establishment carrying on and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world that the tavern was closed and all were meant to be asleep. Braum instinctively looked in their direction and they didn’t seem to notice until Braum heard from behind him, “Oi! Aren’t you the one from that brawl earlier?”. The young man turned to look at his new conversation partner, not breaking his pace away from the tavern, “Ne, that was another.”. “Was it now? Am I wrong fer thinkin you a part of it?”, the man asked, slurring the words in his question as he asked it. Braum turned his back to the man and shrugged his shoulders, showing that he was done with the conversation. His feet trodded along the sludgy European dirt beside the road. When he made his way further away from the tavern, he could see no sign of torchlight making its rounds up and down the street. ‘Perhaps this town has no night watch?’, he asked himself, he found that rather odd, ‘Should I’ve left Axe there alone? Ah, ‘es a big lad, ‘e’ll be a’right.’, he dismissed his concern.

It had been so long since Aksel had slept in his own bed. It was the most comfortable thing he’d slept on in months. His bliss was interrupted by an uncharacteristic chill invading his room when his nose scrunched up in recoil. He did this a few more times before opening his eyes ever so slightly. Upon gathering consciousness Aksel felt how cold the room actually was, it was that same chill from back in the forest, just before they had entered the town. His head moved lazily around to the end of his bed when he saw a figure standing in the corner of the room, just out of the reach of moonlight that shone through the window. “Bröm, hvað-...”, is all he managed to ask when the figure disappeared, halting his voice and widening his eyes. Aksel, frightened, looked around the room with haste, when his vision made it to his right side. A petite, pale, young woman stood before him, wearing a white lambskin, her eyes looked as if they’d seen one thousand horrors over the course of a hundred lifetimes. Though, her brow was furrowed in something that resembled concern.

Aksel threw the quilt off himself and leapt out of the bed on his left side, “Heilög helvíti!” he yelled in an attempt to at least frighten the intruder. Grabbing the first thing in his sight, which happened to be the candle that hung on the wall above him, he brandished it in his front like a rapier. “Viltu deyja?!?! Heh?!”, he yelled once more, waving his candle around like a weapon. The young woman held her hands up, attempting to calm down the Heathen when an irritated knock came at the door before it was flung open. A larger Anglo-Saxon man stood before the two, he stuck one hairy sausage-looking finger at Aksel and hissed, “Quiet down you fucking barbarian! Good folk are tryin to sleep!” violently. Aksel stood before him, candle raised when the door slammed back shut with a DONK.

The young man stood there, having yet to process what was happening around him. He stared through the door when he remembered why the man had entered; Aksel yelled, ‘Why did I yell?’ he asked himself. It clicked, ‘Anda!’ he remembered and looked over the rest of the room. But everything was as it should have been, he paused in uncertainty, further analyzing the enclosure. A drawn-out inhale followed by, “Sssshhhhhh… vinsamlegast ekki öskra, það er sárt í höfðinu á mér.” slithered into Aksels ear and he recoiled, the candle still in hand. He spat back into the empty room, “Hver er þetta?? Hvernig talar þú tungumálið mitt?”, there was a moment before a reply came, “Freyða. Ég er frá þínu heimili…”. Aksel collected himself, ‘Okay… Freyða, who speaks my tongue’.

Aksel could see the figure of the lovely young woman appear again sheepishly from seemingly thin air. Her hands fiddled behind her back, head held low, looking up at Aksel. He couldn’t help but imagine how beautiful the moonlight would’ve looked as it reflected off of the pure white lambskin she wore, though, the moonlight shone through her instead of rearranging itself to allow her existence. “Fyrirgefðu Úlf… Ég var ekki að reyna að hræða þig.’, she whispered to him. It sounded as if she stood directly in front of him but he could clearly see that she stood on the other side of the room. “Nei…”, Aksel found himself at a loss for words, stumbling over his apologies, “Nei ahhh… Allt er gott.”, Aksel tried to draw her wandering gaze to show her his smile. She saw his expression, but hers didn’t change. He sat on his bedside and patted his left hand beside him, inviting her to sit with him. She shyly moved over to his bedside and elegantly sat beside him.

Aksel, once again, didn’t know what to do. ‘Should I ask her why she’s here? What if she doesn’t know? Is she the one that calls me ‘Úlf’? Why? Could she be-”, his thoughts were cut off by his mouth asking, “Hvað ertu að gera hér, Freyða?”. He looked down at her, awaiting a response before moving his sight elsewhere. She eventually replied, “Ég er hér fyrir þig.” Aksel confirmed, “Fyrir mig?”, she looked up at him and slowly nodded. “Ég skil ekki-”, Aksel was cut off by the door to the room being opened again. His head shot up to see Braum standing in the doorway looking at him in question. “Were you talking to yourself there, Axe?” he asked, Aksel returned, “Ah, sometimes I do þat.” with a lighthearted chuckle. Upon looking once again, the Northman saw that Freyða had disappeared from the room entirely.

[flakk]

RAID - X

The roasted chicken leg was a welcome change in Aksel’s diet. In reality, he would welcome anything that wasn’t salted or 5 days old and smelled like leather. Braum sat in front of him at the opposite side of the table drinking from a wooden mug of ale. A clean wooden plate lay in front of him on the table. A dim, warm candlelight filled the tavern with hardly enough light to read. There were a few windows but the clouds overcast the sun that day and little sunlight found its way into the establishment. The raider sat there on the bench, Hrafnfiða hung from his back, secured by a leather strap; the source of many of the conversations inside the tavern. Braum had tried to convince him that keeping the axe would undoubtedly bring unwanted attention, for Aksel, it was no choice.

Braum asked facetiously, “Will you finish that?”, gesturing to the rest of the food on his companion’s plate. Aksel could hardly hear him over the bantering and conversation filling the tavern, “Someday… Aye,” he replied. He took another bite of his chicken leg before he gestured at Braum with it, drawing his partners attention, “Kyklingr…” he said factually and took another bite. Braum’s brow raised and he repeated, “Kick-linger? That means ‘chicken’?”, Aksel nodded an affirmation with a full mouth.

His eyes wandered past Braum, a wench brought a tray of 3 ale mugs to a table of three men in the corner of the tavern. From his estimate, they were each around their mid 20’s in age. Unconsciously, he looked at the waists of the two men he could see fully. ‘Four blades. Two swords and a seax… So many swords with these people.’ he thought to himself as his chewing slowed. The woman set the drinks down on the men's table, “Oi, love…” the man sitting on the left side of the table said loudly, “What I gotta’ pay fer’ yer’ arse next round insted’?”. His companions laughed at his remark. The woman scoffed and recoiled in disgust and spat, “I’m no strumpet.” she then turned to walk away with the wooden tray. As she did, the man took the hand he wasn’t resting on his mug and slapped the woman on the ass. Aksel raised one brow at the SMACK sound that resonated through their area of the tavern. She gasped and jolted slightly, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction, she hurried back to the bar in front of the cookery and Aksel relaxed slightly.

“Axe,” Braum began and Aksels eyes returned to his friend for a moment before falling to his plate once more, “We haven’t spoken of your return to the North…”. His gaze wandered away from the table, looking at the other patrons in the tavern. The Scandinavian replied without breaking his gaze from his plate, “Must ve’?”, Braum answered, “I’d prefer it”, looking at Aksel now. Aksel paused, looking at the chicken he held with two hands, elbows propped up on the table, planning his next words. He looked up at the Anglo-Saxon, “Vhat’ is to be discussed?”. Braum answered as Aksel took another bite out of his chicken leg, “I, for one, would like to know how you intend on returning to the North.”. “Vho’ says that is my intention?”, Aksel prodded after swallowing the succulent mouthful of kyklingr, “Is it not your intention?” Braum asked forcefully. Aksel wasn’t certain what his answer was, he would love to be back with his family but he didn’t think that he would be able to be happy with his family, knowing that he had taken this young boy from his, regardless of if the boy was Kristían or not; he was a person. “If it was, would you stay here in North Umbria? Vith’ your people?” Aksel returned, his companion processed this for a moment before answering in a solemn tone, “I know not… Not yet” Braum’s gaze became glossy and unintimate.

It was then that the tavern wench nervously made her way back to the men's table with more ale. She moved to replace their mugs when the man on the left announced, “Oi I’m done with the fuckin’ ale. I asked for yer’ arse bitch!”. This attracted Braum’s attention along with many of the other patrons; he looked over his shoulder, annoyed, “The hell-...?” he said softly. The man's tablemates encouraged him on through exaggerated reactions and facial expressions; a monkey doing his monkey dance to convince his friends he’s a good monkey. He then gripped the wench firmly by the arm and pulled her down closer to him, she gasped in a mixture of shock and dread. In the commotion, some of the remaining ale the woman was carrying on the tray spilt onto the table as she attempted to steady the tray again.

Aksel sat his food down, sat upright, and leaned around Braum to look at the man; hopefully communicating that he was out of line and everyone knew it. Then, the man on the right side of the table exclaimed, “Watch yerself’ cunt!” as the first man stood and struck her across the face. She screamed and recoiled, all the patrons heard it. As she hid her face behind her hand Aksel could see the tears welling up in her eyes now. The Northerner shot up from his seat as Braum watched him with an expression that said, ‘Please don’t do what I think you’re about to do…’. Aksel saw his friend's expression and disregarded it immediately, moving around their table. The wench tore her arm away from her aggressor and retreated behind the bar, the man on the left forced himself up from the table, visibly heavily inebriated. Aksel approached quickly with his open palms raised to the man saying, “Woah have yourself a seat friend, she’ll be back I’m sure.”, taking care to not sound sarcastic as he so often did unintentionally.

The man swatted the Scandinavians hands away from him, “Oh, piss awf’ ye’ twat!”. This was not the response he had hoped for and he set his hands on the man’s shoulders and pressed downward, expecting him to stumble about further and fall back down on the bench. Braum sat turned about on his bench watching the scene in front of him unfold and eating the remains of Aksels chicken leg, only pausing to turn and wash it down with his ale.

Suddenly, Aksel was struck across the face and the voices in the tavern collectively raised in excitement. Upon opening his eyes, Aksel saw the dancing monkey holding his hands up clumsily in what seemed to be a sloppy excuse for a fighting stance. Amidst the strike, Aksel had moved backwards slightly, leaving enough room between him and the table for the monkey to spread his feet out enough to pose somewhat of a threat. After Aksel realized his circumstance, it was obvious to see when the monkey dropped his right shoulder in preparation for a right cross punch. The raider waited for a moment; ensuring his opponent completely committed his momentum. He was past the point of no return and, in one fluid motion, Aksel ducked down left, bringing his right hand up to his right ear. He felt the knuckles strike his forearm then slip past his head totally. He rotated his torso and twisted his rear foot, driving his left fist into the monkey’s midsection.

As soon as the blow connected, the rest of the tavern erupted with the sounds of cheering. Braum had finished Aksels chicken leg and sat with his right arm resting on the table behind him, “Oi, just yell if ya’ need help there Axe!”, Braum shouted over the commotion and cheering. Aksels strike had thrown the man into a mild panic at the sudden difficulty to breathe; while recoiling from the blow, he pulled his right arm back and rotated himself so that he could grab Aksel by the side of his neck. He snaked his arm around the arm Aksel still had covering the right side of his head and gripped the young man by the back of the neck. Slightly confused about his opponent’s plan, Aksel moved forward, raising his elbow above the centre of the monkey’s arm. He pulled down with his arm, shoulder, and core, buckling the man’s elbow downward, pulling the two closer, and releasing the man’s grip on his neck. Multiple people in the tavern released an enthusiastic, “Oooohh” upon seeing this. In the same motion, Aksel brought his left arm around to strike the monkey across the face. The awkward angle and distance of the strike caused his fist to deflect off of the monkey’s face, the inertia of the movement caused him to push his left forearm into his opponent’s face. The man stumbled backwards and fell back into his bench seat on his back, Aksel managed to catch himself on the table the men were using and pulled himself up. The raider saw his opponent was staring at the ceiling, opening and closing his mouth; one often does that when they can’t feel their face, so that was a good sign, Aksel thought.

Which was cut off by an explosive pain in the right side of his ribcage, causing the Scandinavian to topple on his side underneath the monkey’s feet. Upon seeing his new aggressor, he saw that the man on the right side of the table had stood and kneed him in the side. Aksels right arm folded in front of his injured rib, supporting himself off of the floor with his left arm, he watched the second man pull his right leg in; preparing to kick Aksel into submission. Aksel was in the process of trying to spin himself so his feet would face the assailant when Braum launched himself at the second man, throwing them both onto the top of the table covered in mugs and half-eaten food. Aksel let out a relaxed exhale as Braum and the second man fumbled around on top of the table. The third man that sat in the far seat of the monkey table had braced himself against it, spectating the encounter in front of him. He clamped a strip of venison that hadn’t finished yet in his mouth; both hands on the table and genuinely disappointed at the waste of his mug of ale that had been thrown off of the table by Braum and the second monkey’s altercation.

Aksel laid on the floor, trying to slow his breathing and minimize his internal pain. Braum had the gravitational advantage on the tabletop. The second monkey was throwing his right elbow behind himself at Braum, the first connected with Braum’s mouth, splitting his bottom lip on one side. The smithson raised his left forearm up to deflect the incoming strikes, as a result, Braum fell off of the man. Trying to maintain his momentum, he turned into it, rolled off of the table and steadied himself on the corner of the wall. Once Braum no longer pinned the second monkey to the table, he threw himself off of the table as well and turned to face his opponent. “Come on en’!”, the man yells and taunts Braum to approach him with fists raised. 

Braum began closing the gap between himself and the man when he noticed Aksel, still on the floor but he was sliding himself along the floor closer to the second monkey’s rear with his feet. Attempting to stall the assailant to provide time for whatever Aksel was planning, Braum visibly let his guard down; his arms fell to either side, “Mate, you couldn’t hit me if you tried for a thousand years.” Braum prodded. The man moved closer to Braum, his hands shot up in surrender, and Braum pleaded, “Woah! Hey, I didn’t mean that sir…”. It worked, the second monkey lowered the fist was preparing to strike with and squinted in confusion. Aksel was still on the floor, approaching Braum’s opponent. Once he was close enough, he threw his legs up, turned slightly, and hooked the man in between his legs with his right foot and pulled him downward to the floor. He grabbed onto the man’s ankle with both hands, with his left leg, Aksel threw it along the other side of the man’s leg and hooked his feet together at the man’s right hip. It was then that the man began to panic; realizing that there was not going to be a way out of this submission, spasming and struggling violently. The tavern quieted with suspense, Braum and the third monkey, craning his neck to see past the table, watched the two on the floor with a morbid curiosity.

Aksels left hand moved up to catch the man’s shaking foot, he did after a few failed attempts and rolled left onto his side, trapping the man’s left hip between his right foot and the floor. In a final desperate plea, the monkey screamed, “Alwin! Fockin’ help me damn it!”, flailing his arms around in front of him; a toddler who had their binky stolen. The third sat paralyzed in the far seat of the table, wide-eyed. The second began again, “Chad, wake up you-!” he was cut off by the sound of his ankle being dislocated with a sickening CRCKK followed by his ear-shattering cry of pain that cut any conversation still being had in the tavern off. Aksel felt the resistance of the bone give way and released himself rolling on his back and picking himself up with his feet. His mouth hung open, panting and his hands rested on either of his hips. Braum stood beside him still trying to understand the logistics of what he’d just witnessed. Upon looking away from his victory, Aksel saw the entirety of the establishment onlooking in a quiet shock. It was interrupted only when Braum found the words to ask, “Where the hell’d ya’ learn that one?'' without taking his eyes off of the flailing man on the floor, cradling his ankle as best he could. Through exhausted inhalations, Aksel responded, “Glima…”, Braum repeated, “Glihma?”.

“Já, I’ll instruct you sometime if you wish.” Aksel said. A noticeable interest shone through Braums expression.

[flakk]

RAID - II

“Look here, boy.”, the man instructed his son with his heavy Anglo-Saxon accent, “This is how you want a blade to look before you soak it in water.”. The son looked at the red-orange coloured blade on the anvil; its proportions were almost perfect. Soaking the metals was always his favourite part, he loved watching the steam fly into the air and the sound it made. The father retrieved a pair of prongs from the workbench, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sturdy leather gloves and lifted the blade over the bucket of water they had set aside. The young one’s eyes were fixated on the blade, anticipating the coming eruption.

The father let the prongs drop slightly; keeping his other eye on his child’s face as a mischievous smirk made its way onto his face. He did this again before the boy spoke up, “Poppaaaa, please.”. The father responded with a hearty laugh at his son’s frustration. The prongs plunged into the water bucket, releasing a sharp SSSHHHHHHH. The boy’s eyes lit up in awe; the highlight of his day. The boy was rather tall for his age and “Big boned” as his mother put it. He had a plump, round face with flat blue eyes that almost looked the colour of steel under certain light with light brown hair that would grow blond if he spent too much time outside in the sun.

The steam dissipated and the father pulled the blade out of the bucket, placing it back on top of the anvil. “Isn’t that a beauty?” he said more to himself than anything. Regardless, the son commented, “She is very pretty.”. The two stood there admiring their work for a moment before a voice came from the house, “Love, is Braum out there with you?”. The father turned his head to answer his wife, “Gea, he’s out here.”. “Alright well, the food is here on the table for you two.”, she responded. The father instructed, “Come on boy, time for food.”. This was the other highlight of Braum’s day.

In between mouthfuls of mutton and beer, Braum asked his parents, “Did you know that in big cities like London, there are such people called ‘chefs’?”. Braum took another swig of beer in an attempt to wash the mutton down his throat, “And ‘chefs’ are paid to prepare food for people? Like what you do Ma, but it’s one’s profession!”. The mother looked up at the mention of her name, “D’you hear that love? I should be paid in coin for this meal.”, she remarked with a playful smile. The father swallowed his mutton and responded with a soft chuckle, “Braum, where’d you learn about these ‘chefs’ you’re on about?”. Braum’s chewing ceased and he started looking through the table; searching his brain for a memory of the first time he learned of a chef. 

His eyes lit up with recognition, “Godwin told me about them!”. “Godwin?” the father inquired. “Gea, Godwin and I were speaking of foods and he mentioned that people are paid to make food for others in some of the larger cities.”, Braum explained, “I thought that was rather interesting, so I remembered it.”. At a lower volume, he continued, “I was thinking that maybe I could b-”. The father interrupted him through a mouth of mutton, “Ne boy.”, he swallowed, “You’re to be a smithy.”. An almost uncomfortable silence enveloped the table before the father continued, “I’m a smithy, my father was a smithy…”, he looked up from his plate and enunciated every syllable, “And that makes you a smithy.”.

The smiles were gone now and all was silent until Braum spoke, “Momma,”. The mother looked to her son. “Thanks to you for this meal.” Braum finished with an innocent smile. After a few moments of listening for any hint of sarcasm, the father commented, “I second that.”.

The smiles returned.

[flakk]

RAID - I

The wind whipped across the boy’s exposed fingertips. The only reason he could tell that his fingers were on the bow was because of the blood displaced whenever he moved them. He let his head lower and his gaze fall onto the dirt below him. The runic engravings on the wood felt foreign to his numbed fingertips.

His pale skin contrast the dark green colour of the cloak he wore. His eyes and hair were both brown, because of this, few of his peers ever took interest in befriending him. This had taught him how to cope with being alone, he was comfortable in isolation. The pelt he wore over himself was not his own, as a result, it looked more like a bedroll than something to be worn.

The dead tree limb he leaned against moved up and down with his body weight. He set up inside of a gymnasium of dead tree limbs that had been torn off, gathered, and placed there for that purpose. If it wasn’t for the sub-zero temperatures, he could’ve fallen asleep then and there. He always had enjoyed the colder weather. The little he did know about warm weather included the fact that it made him sweat, a lot.

His daydream was shattered by a hand striking him on his shoulder. The first instinct he would’ve had would be to look at who or what had touched him, but upon honing his situational awareness he lifted his eyes to look at the end of his barrel. There it was. A gorgeous roebuck. It weighed more than he did at that time. There was no hesitation, daydreaming or thinking. It was time to perform. He had been taught from a small child that performance is what matters, if not all that matters.

He closed his left eye and looked down the shaft of the arrow. His breathing softened and slowed. He knew himself well enough to know that any distraction would destroy his performance. As soon as that thought entered his mind, the place where his nose was felt heavy. His upper lip could feel the drip of snot lower itself down from his nose. Instinctively he sniffled.

The buck’s head shot up; looking into the cover of tree limbs. The boy freezes; slowing his breath. A common beginner mistake when ‘spotted’ is to attempt to trade stealth for speed and hide somewhere quickly. This never works. He had had plenty of practice with squirrels, rabbits, and other small game.

Finally, the animal's head lowered back down to the earth and began picking at something on the ground. The boy’s head moved back over the arrow and he lined up his shot. Every muscle in his neck was tense; filled all the anxiety of a calm before a storm. The tip of the arrow moved just over where the animal’s heart should be. He thought that the worst-case scenario was that if he missed, the arrow would strike the lung instead, it wasn’t a bad target to aim for. But the boy had only ever had to see one animal choke to death on its own blood and he wanted to keep it that way. He let all the tension out of his fingers, nothing happened. Confused, he looked at the string of the bow to see that his fingers hadn’t moved at all. He just couldn’t tell because he couldn’t feel any of them.

“Hvað ertu að gera Aksel?!”, his father hissed at him, “Drepa!”. The buck’s head rose once more. The boy released the string amidst the pressure. He saw a glimpse of it as it was going over the target and then it was gone. The buck had fled as soon as it heard the string release; this was not its first time being shot at. The boy let his arms fall to his sides in defeat. There was a brief silence, interrupted by the father speaking again, “Gefðu mér boga þinn.”. Aksel pleaded, “Pabbi! Vinsamlegast!”. By the time the words left his mouth, the father had already torn the bow from his hands. “Ég gaf þér tækifæri, þú eyðilagðir það.” the father justified himself.

Aksel watched the oversized boots on his feet slosh through the snow-speckled mud and frost-covered dirt. Watching for any defecation on the way back to their cabin. Water gathered inside of the hoof prints and trails throughout the wilderness surrounding the boy’s home. “Fjandi!” the father exclaimed into the woods; startling his son. The bowstring dug into Aksel’s shoulder and his eyelids fell heavily. He tried to tune his father out as much as possible, he found that it made life much more enjoyable.

The familiar thump, thump, thump of boots walking along the porch of the cabin was a welcome sound to the both of them. The father kicked the dried dirt off of his boots on the side of the cabin. The boy moved to do the same after him.

The door to the cabin shut as the father entered. When the boy went to open the door, he found it had been locked. “Pabbi…” Aksel asked inquisitively. The father responded from inside the establishment, “Þú færðir engan mat, þú sefur úti.”.

That was a long night

[flakk]

I been on my machine gunner shit lately

[flakk]

Once Upon a Time at an O'Reilly's

Garrison: "Hey Erik, do you remember how much you hated me when you first got hired?"

Erik: "Yeah"

Garrison: "And eventually I just stopped caring about getting you to like me and now we're cool."

Erik: *turns to glare at Garrison* "Funny how that works huh?..."

Garrison: "...Oh"

Erik: "Yeah..." *chuckles*

[flakk]

The Logics

The Sword;

Eternally hunting perfect simplicity, self-sufficiency, and isolation.

Pushing the universe towards the basest, strongest, form it could ever take.

Three great nations under three great queens.

The first queen writes a great book of law, and her rule is just.

The second queen builds a great tower. Her people climb it to see the stars.

The third queen raises a great army and conquers everything.

The future belongs to one of these three queens.

Her rule is harshest and her people unhappy.

But she rules.

This is what the Sword dictates.

This is the reason why everything is exactly the way it is and not some other way.

All things that exist eventually collide

When this happens, the two beings discharge;

One way of doing things collides with another,

And in doing so they petition one another for the right to go on existing.

And this was the way that the universe simplified itself,

Became stronger, reduced itself into more than it was before.

Until the Bomb was discovered;

For the Bomb announces itself,

Once established it boasts and brags;

«None may challenge me.

For I have defeated the Sword, the method as old as time itself,

And I have done it with the combined will of the many in unison.»

The Romans:

A truly magnificent and awe-inspiring people.

Their beginning from enslavement,

Soared into what is now known as the 'Great Roman Empire'

Conquering the entire Mediterranean

As well as laying the groundwork for what has grown into humanity as a whole.

The Great Roman Empire did all of this because they were the first to use the Bomb.

All of their soldiers worked as one unit;

One smooth, unrelenting machine.

They held the first Bomb in their grasp,

And when petitioned against by any Sword:

Like the Franks, Scots, Britons, etc.

The Sword could not disassemble the Bomb.

Although, yes, the Bomb will inevitably lose pieces of itself in the act of discharge;

But it will win against the Sword, every, single, time

For as long as it may be sustained...

For none may sustain the Bomb forever

No man, no god, no entity can escape the end of all things;

The Bomb is sustained, it keeps and it defends against any and all.

But the Bomb, being made of many individual pieces, is doomed to failure

As one piece will become unsatisfied with its purpose;

And all it takes for the Bomb to destroy itself is one piece to remove itself.

And the Sword waiting ever so patiently for the Bomb to fall back into pieces,

The Sword would say unto the Bomb;

«The world is not built on the laws men love.

The universe is run by extinction, and if anything is to survive the end of all things,

It will live not by the smile, but by the Sword.

Not in a soft place, but in a hard hell.

Not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise,

But in the cold, hard, self-verifying truth of the only judge.

The power that is it's own metric and it's own source - existence.»

[flakk]

Reed Deed Redeemption

Chapter III

The three men stood amongst the freezing cold backdrop of what was the breathtaking (literally) Grizzlies. The storm had passed, resulting in a fresh layer of snow atop everything else. They waded through the almost waist-high blanket. Aksel leads his horse along by the rein, carrying their bounty along with them. The only sounds to be heard; the crunching fresh snow underneath the men’s feet, and the birds, singing only ever enough to remind you that the Wood need no provocation to force one to their knees on a whim. “I saye’ det’ ve’ just leaf’ him heer’ to dye’.”, Aksel said, breaking their introspective silence; though all of the men were contemplating the thought indeed, they dare not address the matter.

Donovan was the next to fall in line with the Northerner, “Yea, howe’ mooch’ is dat’ Sheriff intendin’ on payin’ oss’ anywho?”. In turn, Alfred replied, “Ee’ sayed’ iss’ basserds’ worth bout’ $350 alive-”. Aksel cut Alfred off, “Su’, 150 for you ant’ eye’. Ant’ Donofan’ hass’ 50. Dette iss’ gud’ ja?”, he said hurriedly, knowing that his accent would make the proposal harder to understand; and more likely to be accepted. “Nowe’ joost’ wate’ one second ther’ Ax.”, Donovan objected. Ax snuck a glance up at Donovan; his smirk and wide eyes finding their way out from under the brim of his large hat. Donovan returned the playful smile back to his companion, followed by a chuckle; the situation was understood between the two.

A voice interjected from behind Aksel’s horse, “Wuld’ yew’ tew’ stawp’ tung’-fuckin’ each other and git’ a rewm’ already?”, the man’s voice was quickly overtaken by Alfred’s, laying out a plan for their road ahead. “Aright’ you can spawt’ em’ from ere’ if you pay attenshion’.” the subject of the sentence now became apparent once the others looked to where Alfred was knelt down and pointing to; a small speck in the distance, almost proportional enough to be a wagon. “A wagon?”, Aksel asked. “Yeeahp’, a prison wagun’ moar’ lack’.” Alfred returned. He turned to Donovan and continued, “Yew’ know de’ drill?”. “Woahy’ yoo’ askin’ me if eye’ know yer’ drill?” Donovan questioned. “Because yer’ the mows’ charmin’ n’ yew’ know it tew’.” Alfred explained, “Look, yew’ juss’ gotta’ go up ere’ and tell em’ you got there ahead of everyone else, and stard’ cheesin’ em’ up fer’ us.”. Donovan chimed, “Oi, well you do haff’ a point dere’. I am de’ most charmin’.” Aksel rushed, “You heard de’ mann’, be on your way.”

[flakk]

Dream

I dream. But not like you. Your dreams are my nightmares. I am the monster your mother told you wasn’t real.

When I dream it is not of my “lover”, or of my favourite foods, or even of my dog relaxing at home with me. No, I dream every day. Every day on the sidewalk, every day in the street, every day in my house, every day at the store.

When I first dreamt I was so excited that I ran off to tell my mother. She did not give me the reaction I expected. She did not give me a, “Oh sweetheart that’s so nice. You can do anything you put your mind to!”. No the first time I ever opened up to my mother was different than that fantasy.

I was greeted with a, “What the hell is wrong with you?! That is not okay!! I raised you better than that!”. Never thinking or bothering to teach me how I was supposed to dream. I was forced to figure that out on my own.

I figured out that I’m wrong for being me. People don’t like who I am. And I don’t like who people are. My issue is that without these precious “people” I can’t thrive in this world.

Now, whenever I see you I smile. Whenever you say, “Thank you” I say, “You’re welcome”. Whenever you tell me your dog died I say, “Oh, I’m so sorry”. These are the rules of society that I must follow.

I’ve forgotten who I am for you.

And I like who I am.

[flakk]

Reed Deed Redeemption

Chapter II

The friends sat in the creaking wooden structure, staring at the dirty mess of a man that lies in front of them. The violent Grizzlie’s wind whipping through the openings in the walls of the barn, their only companion breaking the silence.

You see, they had long since passed the point of enjoying one another’s conversation. That mutual understanding that companions will share with each other; ‘Our breathe will be better used for fuel rather than speech’. Only ever a sad feeling if one wills it to be so. For it is with such ease one could find the hidden feeling of content within such a sacred silence.

The mess of a man in front of them grunted. “He awake?”, Aksel asked. There was another short silence. Ax propped his hands atop the hay and dirt on the ground, preparing to rise to his feet. “Iont’ know.”, Alfred replied. Aksel yelled, “Because if he is faking it den’ I might just haff’ to kick dee’ shít’ out of him!” loud enough to leave as little of a chance as possible for the captive to not overhear him. There was another silence as the two sat to listen for some kind of response. Ax stood; crouched over the opening to the horse pen, his left ear drawn toward the trough they had thrown the man in. His horse, “Dauðibera”, turn his long head to see what his owner was doing. “May”, Alfred’s horse had been standing in front of her trough for the entire time.

The massive barn door screeched open; snow flew inside, the harsh chill of the North assaulted the mammals within. “Eye’ found em’. Ee’s’ dere’.” Donovan said with the last breaths of chilling air escaping his lungs. Donovan had been out on reconnaissance, looking for their bounty wagon driver. Their plan was to capture this bounty up in the Grizzlies, keep him tied up in a safe house for a few hours to make the bounty wagon driver think that they had to put in a lot more work into this operation than they did; and by extension, maybe even the Sheriff; raising their payout.

“Solid”, Ax craned his head back to their friend and said. The tall, lanky Norwegian turned back to look at their prize. When he noticed that the mess of a man had shifted his weight around in the trough so that his face was concealed behind himself. “Hei! Shít for brains!”, Ax shouted as he started aggressively pacing into the horse pen toward the bounty. Alfred stood up from his seat in the corner, and Donovan turned to look at the scene.

Aksel had made his way to the end of the pen and had lifted up his right boot to stomp down on the bounty’s side when, all at once, the man jumped up from the trough and rotated as to show Ax his teeth. He released a cold and violent growl. Aksel stopped himself from thrusting his boot down into the trough and in the process unbalanced himself. He let out almost a whimper upon realizing that he was going to fall backward. The bounty had sat up in his bindings to glare at the three hunters.

“Filthy wretched scum! The lot o’ ya’!”, he slandered the men. “Keepin’ a beautiful wuff’ tied up like iss’!”, his gaze bore right through Aksel. “Thinkin’ you ca-”, there was the sound of the air parting and a ‘thunk’. Aksel’s eyes shot up to the wood barn wall directly behind the man, a throwing knife sticking out of the dense pine. “Thass’ enuff’ outta’ you Shit fer’ breath.”, Al’s old, gravelly voice resonated through the enclosure.

Donovan leaned in toward Al, “Oi’ woulda’ used de’ tormahakk’ meself’.”. Alfred’s judgemental glare raised up toward Donovan, followed by Aksel’s. Al’s met the Irishman’s shifty gaze; as if a child that didn’t know exactly what, but knew they had done something wrong. The bounty that lay bound, in the horse trough, took notice of the shift in attention. He threw himself upward, craning his head toward the knife stuck in the wall beside him. His jaw clamped down into the handle, the remains of his teeth finding their niche within the soft, finished wood.

Aksel finally marked this after hearing the disturbance of the water within the trough. He bolted up onto his feet. The bounty fell back down into the dirty water and violently threw his head back toward the men in front of him, releasing a concoction of what sounded like a mixture of a roar, growl, and a screeching sound. Ax only ever marked what he wanted himself to and gathered his heel upward into striking position and thrust it down into the man’s nose before he could turn the point of the blade toward Aksel’s boot enough to penetrate.

“Fånden!”, Ax grunted, drawing the word out into two lengthy syllables. Alfred’s knife dropped from inside of the man’s mouth, a thick, fresh stream of liquid flowed from his nostrils; gathering his dirty, bushy, grey beard into warm, bloodied, strands. The water in the trough now slowly grew into a dark, reddish-brown; a mix of all the blood, faeces, dirt, and mould that had come to call it home over the past 12 years since the old mining town of Colter was abandoned. The man now looked up at Ax with a demented grin, making sure to show all of his teeth so that all could see their fresh red coating.

[flakk]

Love

Love,

I’m not sure I know what you mean.

From what I hear, we can’t be experiencing the same emotion.

Yours too wonderful and eternal.

Mine, all too temporary and ridiculous

.

You people speak of such bliss and pleasure from your emotions.

I’m not sure we feel the same things.

When I first felt happy, it was incredibly underwhelming.

I dare say, this is not worth any amount of pain.

For the way I see “love”,

Something used to inflict pain unlike anything else.

A torture device only used upon the naive.

No, wait, I do!

I do know love!

That feeling I am blessed with when I win?

Standing over a fallen opponent,

The feeling of… dopamine… in our brains…

Sorry, my mistake.

[sociopathicneighbor]

If, How often do you feel the need to legitimately murder a group of people but you only avoid it because you don't want to go to prison or commit suicide at the end of it?

On a daily basis. 

[flakk]

Reed Deed Redeemption

Chapter I

“I say- I say- I say- I say-”,  Aksel boasted in thick Louisiana accent, loudly over the sound of hooves thumping onto thick dirt. “I say- I say-” he took this time to gargle the saliva in the back of his throat and violently spit it into the dirt below the two horsemen. “I shoulda’ got-durned’ shawt’ dem’ coyotes dead in er’ tracks I shoulda’ I say!”. Alfred threw his head back to the sky with a contorted expression; equal parts laughter and disappointment. Aksel’s grizzly visage looked up toward his companion. “Aw hail’ I don’ sound like at’ Ax.” Al said through a couple of chuckles. “Sheit, I ain’t e’en from Loui’iana.” he let out a short, ‘haHA’ after finishing the previous sentence. “Dett’ is your stereotype ja?”, Aksel’s slight Northern accent drawing ‘stereotype’ out into 5 syllables instead of 4, his chin jerking upward upon beginning the question. Al responded, “Whale’... I guess so. But steel’, you ain’t gotta’ be so obnoxious bout’ eit’.”, Al paused before pronouncing ‘obnoxious’ as if to ensure that was the word he was looking for. The conversation lulled into a hiatus until Ax spoke again, “Dett’ would be note’ foon’ den’...” his head drawn back to Alfred’s in search of some sort of trace of light-heartedness. Al’s remained fixed on the dark dirt trail ahead of them, silence filling the gap between the two.

Which was suddenly broken by Aksel’s horse, “Hestkjött”, jerking the bridle to his right for a clearer view of some commotion behind him. Al’s gaze followed his friend’s horse. He saw that their latest victim had unbound his hands and was working on unbinding his feet from the lasso that Alfred had used and tied to his saddle near the start of the trip. Dragging him behind the horses like an unwanted sack of potatoes. “Haow’ inne’ hail’ is he not dead yet?!” Al exclaimed. Ax, who was currently a step behind, asked, “Hva?”. His eyes following Al as he dismounted and marched toward their disgruntled cargo.

“Ay’! Ay’ look mane’, I was juss’ tryna’ ge- Oh no no no, please!” this request was cut short due to Al’s deep red coloured snow-caked boot felling atop the side of the man’s neck Ax, who had now positioned his horse and himself perpendicular to the trail, viewing the goings-on behind him. His face; a cold concoction of boredom and calculation as he would every once in awhile glance back down the trail to ensure no witnesses would approach and interfere with their distorted vision of ‘fun’. The bleak, snowy foreground was a complete and pure white. Satisfied, he turned back towards his friend and watched him triple knot the man’s new confinements. The man’s face; a canvas of snow, dark brown dirt, and blood. Ax could hardly depict what the man’s face used to look like. Alfred walked back to his mount; satisfied with his new hogtie. Shouting a quick, “Eeyah” before fully sitting in the saddle. Al’s horse, Rheya, started off in a canter while his one foot held himself in place until the other could swing around and find it’s home in the other stirrup. Aksel moved his horses head toward the trail and matched up to Alfred’s pace. “Hooowwww did it gooo?”, Aksel asked while ducking his head in an attempt to retrieve a better view of Alfred’s eyes underneath his signature dirty old flat cap.

Al’s gaze wandered down and over toward Aksel’s. “Tha’ lil’ sheit’ won’ be chappin’ our asses again,” he said with a laugh. Aksel looked back to the man and saw a new group of roping around his mouth and teeth. Already being wetted with fresh blood.

[flakk]

Sitrep - Nov. 17th, 2019

Okay, so up until now this blog has not had a valid purpose. I started it when I was still struggling with ASPD and living with my father as a way to express myself to the world with minimal repercussions.

The only thing that has changed since this blog’s founding is me. I have since been to extensive therapy for ASPD and other empathy-related issues. I like to consider myself somewhat; a “normal white dude”. Though I am reminded almost constantly that I am out of place and an outcast.

So I am now turning this blog into a solitary place to express as much of my mind as I can before I die. Hopefully leaving at least some kind of mark in this existence more respectful than the current footprints, blood, and dead skin cells scattered across the planet.

[flakk]

anyone: *says something to me*

me: haha yeahh

me in head: what did they just say

[flakk]

Her: Nah im fine

[stagecoachjessi]

[flakk]

Swearing has been proven to lower stress and is registered in a seperate part of the brain than normal words