The wild northern reaches of Scandinavia. As off the grid as off the grid gets. Icy wind stings our cheeks as we look around us desperately searching for… something, anything that speaks of civilization and a respite from the bone chilling cold. That’s when we spy the unmistakable orange flickering light of a fire in the distance.

The faint reddish beacon grows in intensity as we slowly slog closer and closer through the deep, seemingly endless snowdrifts. The light eventually births a short stout longhouse, built in the traditional scandinavian style. The one entrance to the structure, covered by several thick animal pelts, is the source of the delivering light as the furs flap in and out of the doorway in the endless billowing wind.

We press on, pushing through the flaps and entering the longhouse.

Starting almost right inside the doorway and extending back into the hall almost four feel is a long bricked firepit glowing red hot. A haunch of meat and several other earthy morsels crackle and spit over the flames. Presiding over the preparations of this veritable feast is the largest cook we’ve ever seen… his horned masked head brushing the ceiling as he moves up and down the fire, every now and again spinning or prodding at the large haunch of meat.

A Booming Voice:
“Don’t give a mind to Torvald, travelers. He’s harmless unless provoked. Come, present yourselves… your arrival has been foretold.”

A loud voice from beyond the smoke filled half of the hall booms down the length of the building, clear as day. As though the authoritative source of the voice as standing less than a foot away… we press forward, our eyes watering from the thick meaty smoke. 

Emerging we see a tiered dais, atop which sits a large wooden throne ornately carved and polished to an almost blood-red sheen. Around which are piles of soft animal furs, down pillows… and a bevy of nearly nude Viking shield maidens all laughing, feasting on fruit, preening and tending to the needs of the huge man sitting atop that blood-red wood throne.

A pair of identical twin male norsemen, the only other two men on the dais step up from their places flanking the throne and stare us down for a moment. The two platinum blond Scandinavians step forward together, taking turns addressing us, finishing each other's sentences… putting their collective sanity into question almost immediately.

Twin 1:
“The Nu-Father, heralding a return to the old ways. Odin’s ways… “

Twin 2:
“A Reaper of souls in service to Hel itself, some say… “

Twin 1:
“His blood is the blood of our ancestors. The sons of Ragnar Lodbrok, famed vikings all… “

Twin 2:
“The untouchable warrior Björn Ironsides; Ivar the Boneless, healed by the All-Father Odin when he was but a babe they say; the burned one Hvitserk Whiteshirt; the cursed one, the devil Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye...“

As they talk, they slowly part and motion back towards the throne. The huge man with his long blond hair hanging loose around his bare shoulders stands, the women sitting in his lap stand with him, each one taking one of his tree-trunk sized arms as he takes a few small steps towards us.

Twin 1:
“Their magic, their power, their blood… it is their legacy we carry into a new era… “

Twin 2:
“May I present to you our warrior Jarl, The Reaper… Cul.”

With dueling bows the twins step aside, returning to the furs, feast and wenches surrounding the throne… the revelry continuing even as Cul silently stares two giant fjord sized holes directly into our skull. Icey blue eyes, black leather trousers, heavy black leather boots, long waist length blond hair. He steps down off the dais with a goblet in one hand with an air of importance surrounding him, his mere presence almost... magnetic.

Cul:
I must apologize for the trek through the snow, we do enjoy our privacy.

His accent is heavily Scandinavian but speaks more eloquently than his wild warriors appearance would first suggest. He continues off the dais, walking towards us… past us, settling on a bench nearer the fire. His eyes settle on the flames as he wordlessly beckons us to come closer and share the warmth.

Cul:
Come, warm yourselves.

As we settle onto the wooden bench less than an arm length away from the giant terrifying Viking, Cul sits silently with his eyes focused on the flickering dancing flames. When he speaks again, even when at near a whisper his voice seems to fill the room.

Cul:
My ancestors believed revelations hide in the flames. Great truths. The answers to life itself. If you look hard enough, long enough one can even divine their purpose… their gift.

As the wind picks up outside, more cold air manages its way through the flaps covering the door of the longhouse stirring the hazy smoke billowing up from the long fire pit. We again get a good look at the giant seven foot plus tall masked giant still tending to his cooking duties. Cul notices us eyeballing the huge man and chuckles under his breath.

Cul:
I see you’re quite fascinated with my Destroyer… Torvald, come.

The Nu-Father looks on proudly as the giant Torvald slowly plods down the length of the fire pit. The size of him, the sheer mass of this enormous human leaves us without words.

Cul:
Torvald was born in a tiny isolated fishing village north of here. Born huge. Too huge and ungainly to work on the boats with the rest of the men, his father, brothers… as he grew into manhood he was without purpose. He grew frustrated, angry at the world. He, much like me was a man born in the wrong millennia. A thousand years ago Torvald would have been a warrior without reproach known throughout the world. He would have been the captain of his own longship, a famed raider… in today's backwards world, he’s simply an oddity.

Again Cul falls silent, the shadows of lapping flames dancing across his unreadable face.

Cul:
My loyal compatriots Floki and Ivar…

He motions behind him to the twins, still enjoying Cul’s mead… and the company of Cul’s comely shield maidens. One of the twins, Ivar or Floki we know not which, raises an eyebrow and his glass, nodding his head in our direction with a somewhat sinister smile.

Cul:
They made mention of my family lineage. The blood of true Viking raiders pumps through my heart, searing their way throgh my veins, filling my every thought with blood and combat. A blessing and a curse. The old ways don’t fit today's world… living on the outer reaches of a society that feels as foreign to us as another planet. This place is a respite for souls looking for purpose, looking for salvation within the old ways… it is a promise.

The huge blond Scandinavian rises to his feet, downing the last bit of mead from his cup, tossing aside. He pops his neck, his face taking on a far more intense gleam.

Eyes still trained on the flickering flames.

Cul:
DEFIANCE Wrestling is the potential fulfillment of that promise. A place to moor our ship, to stake our claim... to create our own legend even now, so far removed from the heady days of our ancestors.

We don’t notice the twins slowly getting up from their places on the dais. Their revelrous demeanor replaced with cold placid looks of intensity. Their eyes trained on the back of our head. We similarly don’t notice the fact the giant, Torvald, hasn’t looked away from us since being beckoned closer by Cul moments earlier.

Cul:
Gone are the days of sailing across the ocean to raid and pillage. Glory, honor, fame, the visceral thrill of pure unbridled brutality… these are the treasures still left for us to seek.

And seek we will.

We don’t have time to react. Everything goes black… a bag, a bag slipped over our head. The light from the fire causes Cul the Reaper and Torvald the Destroyer to appear as giant black silhouettes through the thin canvas sack.

Cul:
We all come into this world kicking and screaming, you see… covered in someone else's blood. We few? We nobel few? We simply have no problem going out the exact same way. 

He grabs our hair through a handful of canvas, pulling our hooded face close to his.

Cul:
This world threw me to the wolves… I return leading the pack.

We’re pulled backwards off the bench, the twins Floki and Ivar dragging us away from Cul… who continues even as we’re dragged away.

Cul:
I am become the great wolf Fenrir… and I will eat your world whole.

End.

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