OOC:
That one time Santa killed all the bad guys and died in the process:
"If you don't let the child go, I'm going to kill you."
Berserkir - Danheim (to set a mood)
A tense staredown ensued, neither party willing to back down. Wotan drew himself out preparing to lunge, already his hand betraying to the blade of grass at his hip. One baleful green eye gleaming madly from behind the straw hat.
Neither moved, neither blinked. But Wotan didn't even breathe. He waited, in perfect stillness until an opening presented itself. It was something he had learned over centuries of combat. It confused the enemy, in single combat at least. Contorted as he was in the nearly impossibly Torqued low guard, the six raiders took a moment to reconsider.
Wotan didn't need further invitation as he struck out in his fury against his opponent who had fallen to his heel. Wotan's speed and intensity breaking instantly into a draw and slash caught him blindsided, the Blade of Grass expertly slashed through the air and bifurcated the bandit. The blow had cut the top knot clean off the boys head, but left him undamaged.
Wotan interposed himself between the boy and bandits half on instinct. He hunched forward and snarled through his lower register, a sound not unlike a massive snake bellowing. The five remaining descended upon Wotan with the fury to avenge their fallen comrade.
Wotan turned three blows away, the first two by dodging outright, the third blow catching him squarely in the ribs. The sound of bones breaking followed that. If it bothered him, Wotan didn't show it as he parried the fourth club deftly, and was grazed by the fifth attack.
All five had committed to their attacks, off balance Wotan struck from sinistra, a left handed slash through the groin of his nearest adversary. The leg was cut clean through by the Blade of Grass. Leaving Wotan bruised, and two of them dead.
They continued pummeling at Wotan with their barrage of clubs. Wotan managed to deflect the first two, but the third caught him in the forearm. Breaking the limb. The torn flesh around the attack erupted into a bright blue flame that cauterized the wound shut almost as soon as it opened, Wotan didn't even flinch.
Instead with perfect precision he struck from the right at shoulder level. A gout of blood followed by the battle cry of his friend. "I'll eat your liver." Two more strikes with their stone clubs. Wotan sidestepping the first but catching the second in his abdomen. Once more unflinching as if he felt no pain.
Wotan sliced to his right from sinistra across the younger of the two remaining bandits torso. The blade cut deep but missed the heart. Instead the youth dropped to the ground clutching his chest writhing in agony.
Wotan ignored him kicking the final surrendering bandit as hard as he could in the chest and neatly impaling him through his protesting mouth to the dirt beneath his corpse. The final bandit he grabbed by the base of the skull and smashed his skull so hard into a nearby stone stele it cracked the masonry. Crushing the bandit to paste. Wotan exploded into bright blue embers.
He walked back into the settlement the next day looking like the fight never occurred and with no knowledge of the events. This was about 20 years ago, he has only been heard of in murmurs of his protecting the roads. Speaking scorn to all the gods old and new.
Mood Change
Ever scornful of the gods, Wotan has a cult of shamans and witches and is a prolific supporter of their blood rites. They, the Heathen, Call Him Hangatyr, or the Hanged God. As he often contributes himself bodily to fulfill blood sacrament. In a bizarre ritualistic torture, Wotan is bled dry and his blood is drank with blue mead. His flesh is consumed in the sacrament as well. In such a way, Wotan has secured himself a great amount of notoriety.
Privately: He has become possessed with a notion of a conglomerate of tribes. An immortal kingdom that will storm the realm of the gods and kill them.
Last edited October 11, 2022 8:44 am