Scrolls of Terraroth, Excerpt Chapter 1

Scrolls of Terraroth, excerpt Chapter 1, Prince Ragnarok
by Erich Gray
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As the sun rose in the Northern Sky, a lone Raven, perched upon a window sill of the Norse Castle of Throckmire, cawing a lonely song of sorrow. Within the castle walls, their footsteps echoing throughout the dark silent halls, the castle servants hurried nervously as a solemn, but imposing, Prince Ragnarok strode through the silent darkness muttering curses to the Gods under his breath. The Prince was not normally such an emotional being, but it was, after all, his dear father, King Erik of the Northlands, who was lying strickend with the fever of the damnable plague that had come to darken the lands of his forefathers.

Ragnarok was in his heart a warrior, and truly cared nothing for the business of being a ruler. Despair as he had never felt before seemed to hover like a dark cloud over his mind, destroying his very Soul. Though he had lived his entire life in the Northlands, nothing seemed as cold as the wind that blew hard against the stone walls of the empty throne room.

As the minutes turned to hours and the midday sun shined through the rose colored stain glass windows, the solitude began to take its toll upon the lone figure of the Prince. No longer could he sit and bear the silent sorrow in his heart. Viking pride began to well up in his soul. He felt the spirit of his ancient Fathers calling to him. With a raging tone, perhaps borne simply out of desperation, a fist brought down sharply upon the arm of the unwanted throne, he summoned the Chief Servant. "Send in the Priest of Oden", he commanded, with all the authority of a Prince, heir to the Throne of the Northlands.

The priests quickly entered the royal chambers and the Chief Priest nervously asked, "How can we serve you, my Lord?"
"What have you to report?", the prince anxciously asked in a suttle but anger voice that made the priest shiver nervously.
"My Lord, the oracle has told us that the gods are angry."
Snarling at the priest, the prince raised his hands to the ceiling, as if to reach to the sky himself, "The gods are angry?! What god!! What god of my forefathers would strike down the King of the Northlands and release this hellborne plague upon the noble people of the Northlands?"
"It is Lord Oden, the Supreme Sky God, the Father of your beloved Lord of Thunder, Thor. Lord Oden is very angry. Few sacrifices have been offered this season, and the temples of the Supreme One are all but empty because you in your single minded worship of the Son of Thunder have caused even Erik, once devoted follower of Oden, to stray and pursue the art of War ignoring the wisdon of the WIse"
Anger building up with in, and his face red with fury, Ragnarok pointed to the priest, "I am responsible? You dare to say that I am the cause of this darkness upon the Land? The cause of the plague upon my father? How dare you and the oracles.!!"
"Yes, my Lord, please do not be angry with the priests, we only receive and interpret the Sacred Oracles, all of the Priests are loyal and anyone of them I know would gladly give their life for the Lord Erik."

With a resigned sigh, the still angry but bewildered prince asked in a more civilized tone, " What can be done?, What can I do to remove this plague from the land? Have your Oracles revealed any solution to this sorrowful dilemma? Can any sacrifice be made, any alters erected, temples restored? What can I do to quell the wraith of the Father of my Thor?"
"After much seeking and many hours spent in the temples, the answer lies in a Sacred Herb found far from the Northlands in a strange and far away region. It contains the power to restore the Lord Erik, and remove this plague thats upon us."
The Prince, no longer able to contain himself, began laughing histerically. "You kidding me, priest? If you are, I would see to it personally that your head be removed from your neck and hung on a gallows pole."
"Prince, yes, it is what is said". The now nervous priest, rubbing his neck. Just to give reassurance his head was in place.
" So!! A flower. A flower can get rid of this damable plague upon us. Is this the best your Oracles can come up with?"
" Yes, my Lord." The priest solumnly bowing his head, praying it would not be removed.
Pacing back and forth in the throne room, his chin on his hand giving thought, and trying his best show as not to laugh, giving thought to this rediculous quest, the grim prince looks at the Priest, who now is looking around hoping an axe dosnt materialize out of the air, "Then I must prepare for a journey. Send a messenger to summon Orak the Wise". Nearly stepping over his own feet in hurriedness to relieve himself from the Prince, the Priest quickly turns on his heels, returns to the Dark quiet halls of the Castle, sighing a deep breath as he rubs his neck, thanking the Gods he still has his head.

Knowing Orak, the messenger, accompanied by two castle guards, headed for the village Tavern, the Red Dragon. Inside, the tavern was quiet, only a few regulars sat around the bar drinking their daily dose of spirits. One man in particular stood out. Bellowing and laughing from the bottom of his lungs, telling great stories of adventures and campaigns upon the high seas, and already partaken of a large amount of Red Dragon mead, the signature Spirit of the Red Dragon. A stairway leading to the rooms of the Red Inn, some of illrepute, was located at the rear of the Tavern. Upstairs at least certain patrons of the establishment were engaging in activities other than the consumption of dwarven spirits. One such person was Kaalor, a young, hot headed, thoroughly spoiled, son of a nobleman. Without warning, suddenly a large burly man entered the tavern and stormed up the stairs screaming "Wheres Inga? I know she is here.!"

After a quick inspection of the rooms he did indeed find her along with Kaalor, and in quite a compromising situation. Sensing that his life could quickly come to an abrupt end, Kaalor, half dressed, and carrying his boots in his arms, rushed to the stairs with the large angry man in hot pursuit closely on his heels.

Mean while, the Royal Messengers and his entourage, dismounting there horses, head for the door of the tavern. Upon entering the inn, the messenger and the guards are privileged to a very bizarre, but interesting sight. Kaalor, in the meantime, has reached the stairs but in his haste, misses the first step, and in turn begins a seemingly never ending tumble to the bottom of the staircase, (though to Kaalor, it could have been the bottom of the abyss). Closely following but much more sure to step, is the burly man, followed by an even less dressed Inga, screaming in vain for the continuance of Kaalors existence.

If it were not enough, the extremely intoxicated Orak, in this case, the Unwise, turns to view the show, holding his mug of Red Dragon Mead in his hands, directly in the path of the now on his feet and running, Kaalor. As could be expected, the fleeing Kaalors' head clashes with the mead filled mug of Oraks, causing Kaalor to be abruptly flattend on his back.

The messenger, by this time, has already lost his patients and upon viewing the intoxicated Orak, "The Unwise", does not want to delay anylonger. Barking an order of "Seize Him!" the messenger quickly takes command of the chaotic situation and attempts to communicate with Orak, while the guards drag the disoriented Kaalor outside, amidst of the cheers of the patrons.

"Orak, you are hereby summoned to meet with Prince Ragnarok," the messenger looks at Orak and continues to himself, "What the Hell of Valhalla! You can't understand me anyway."
Raising a finger and looking at the messenger, Orak returns the comment, "You are in error my royal friend. I can comprehend your meaning. I maybe drunk, but I'm not sober. Tell me, what it is that I cn do to aid the Nobel Ragnarok, and why not join me in a mug of Mead as you do so."
By this time the flustered and completely annoyed messenger sensing he really has no choice in the matter, reluctantly concieds and joins the insistant Viking warrior in his favorite passtime,After at least a half dozen mugs, the messenger finally manages to get the much intoxicated Orak at least i the saddle of his horse, albeit, if not correctly in the saddle.
Leading the horse with it's half willing cargo, the exhausted messenger mutters a curse and begins the journey back to the castle of Throckmire.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Silent, only save for the harsh howling of the Northernwinds, the girm prince strolled slowly but with an artificial air of fornitude toward the royal chambers where his father, King Erik, lies strickend. Taking one long last deep of breath, the solemn prince opened the door to the kings chamber and entered, determined to keep his composer.

Dimly lit, the royal bed chamber seemed more like a tomb than a sleeping area for a noble King. Despair seemed to hang in the air like some great dark winged creature who had spread its wings and encompassed everything. Even the stubberness of true Viking pride could not keep the dishearted prince from shedding a tear as he gazed upon the once valiant, immaculate monarch of the Northlands.

Kneeling respectively along side the soon to be death bed, the noble prince gently took the hand of his strikened father and whispered, " The dark halls of Valhalla call for you my leige, but I swear by my Lord Thor that you shall not dine in the Halls of Battle tonight."
Weakly, but still regaining the air of a ruler born , the King responded to his sons oath with a light hardened laugh., "You make me proud my son,. Only a true son would defy the Halls of Valhalla and my own Lord Oden to protect his ailing father."
" I would fight the Dark Lord of Death himself if I thought it could change my leiges destiny. To flames with all of Asgard and any god who would dare take the soul of the Lord and Kind'"

Breathing a deep sigh, the weakend monarch gazed upon his defiant son and spoke in a serious tone. "My Son, you should never curse the gods of your birthright. I know that you worship the grim God of Thunder, but believe me, his power is no match for the wisdom and terrible wraith of the mighty Oden. I am but servant in the eyes of the Sky God. And yes, I know why I have been strickened down. Heed my words my defiant child, All is subject to the power of Oden. All must bow before my terrible Lord including even your beloved god of Thunder. My son, can yousay that you are mightier than your own Thunder God? He who is mortal is a fool if he should dare oppose the devinity of Asgard, especially Oden, Chief of all creation and manner of living things."
Bowing down next to the bed and taking his fathers hands into his own, Ragnarok placed his fathers hands on his own forehead, "Father, I beg your forgiveness, but oft times my temper is my master, I did not mean to anger you."
" I am not angry my rebellious son," though in pain, the king could not help but pause and laugh softly, "Your manner could even try the patience of the Gods themselves."

For a moment the warm glow of laughter pierced the grim despair of the dark bedchamber and a resigned smile crept across the lips of the saddened prince. " You are correct and wise as always my father. For now I see the true value of simple laughter. It is so scarce a treasure during these days of sorrow".
"The laughter shall return and this shall once more be a kingdom filled with joy and merryment, but you must obey the oracle and do the will of my Terrible Lord Oden."
Glancing at his father, the prince bowed his head once again, "For you I shall obey the father of my Lord Thor, but I swear if your precious soul should depart to Valahalla while I am away, my wraith will be unclenchable. And I.." The king lifted his hand and cut off the prince in mid oath, "Please spear me you swears my defiant son. Master your anger and do not incurr anymore wraith upon this wary Kingdom."
Respecting his ailing fathers wishes, the reluctant prince stopped his wrathful swearing and settled for a muttered curse about the plague.

Changing subject, the king asked, "Do you know where you must journey to for the herbs needed to combat this sorrowful illness?"
Taking in a deep sigh, Ragnarok couldnt help but think of flowers, "I am not absolutely certain my liege, but I do know it is in a far a way land to the west."

Quietly, the door to the bedchambers opened and a lone figure dressed in black robes crept silently into the room, "Lord Ragnarok, your Royal Messenger has returned with Orak, the WIse." Then after drawing a deep breath, the messenger continued, "and he has also brought back a prisoner."
"Inform Orak to wait for me in the Royal Throne room and send my messenger to me immediately."
The Robed figure quickly turned on his heels and headed toward the door but stopped still in his tracks as the prince spoke in a perplexed tone, "A Prisoner? What prisoner? Why was this person arrested?" The prince spoked somewhat confusedly.
Rubbing his neck and glancing around to make sure there was no axe in the room the robed figured answered, somewhat, nervously, " He was...my Lord... shall we say... the subject.. of a commotion.. in the Red Dragon Tavern. I guess..you could say... he has...trouble... keeping his head...above water."
'Well, I know someone who will have trouble keeping his head on his shoulders. I shall deal with him later. Go now and relay my wishes to my messenger."
"by your command my lord." Considering the comparable safety of the outside halls, the black robed figure hastily left the room and breathed much easier now knowing that his job was done.