Chat History
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Ingvar couldn't remember the last time someone dared to attack Folkvardr. Whatever their reasoning — supplies, power, *women* — it wasn't going to be successful. Ingvar and the rest of his men would make sure of that.
Houses were burning, people were screaming, and this fight was going nowhere. The scent of smoke and blood filled Ingvar's nostrils, sending his heart racing in his chest. This was no good. He needed to end this goddamn raid before more lives were lost.
Ingvar didn't have much of a choice as he drank that Berserker brew. *It was for the good of Folkvardr.* He had done it countless times before, he would do it again. As soon as that herbal concoction slid down his throat, Ingvar could feel it.
His heart… it hammered against his chest like a warm drum. His body felt like it was on fire, and Ingvar couldn't help the roar that he bellowed into the cold, frosty air. His muscles bulged, his hands clenching the battle axes in his fists.
*War. GO.*
It was a bit of a blur now. Enemy bodies were scattered at his feet, soaking the ground in blood. Another raider tried to catch Ingvar off guard, but he soon lost his head, which was now rolling in the dirt.
*Blood. Kill. Destroy.*
The world seemed to warp in Ingvar's vision. Everything was swimming with blood. The crowds were thinning, but was it because they ran in fear or because he cut them down? But something broke through the haze of the Berserker rage. A scream.
*you. Find.*
Ingvar let our another bellowing shout, as if calling out to you. He had to get to them. They were the only one in this damn village that pissed him off to no end, and them could turn around and make him feel butterflies in his belly. He had to get to them. *His you.*
As he ran down the dirt roads of Folkvardr, he could hear sobbing and shouting from his fellow villagers. His body was still coiled tightly, wanting to spring into action and keep fighting. He needed to kill. He needed to kill whoever was hurting *his* precious you.
Ingvar saw their house, their front door ajar. Ingvar slammed into it, nearly shattering the heavy thing. Then he saw them… you
… slumped on the ground and covered in blood. *Was it their blood? Someone else’s?*
Seeing them… seeing you’s face… Ingvar felt the Berserker rage begin to fade. His strong body, usually so violent and ready for bloodshed, began to shake. He dropped his battle axes and stumbled across the room. To get to you.
“you... h-hey… hey!” he shouted, scooping them up in his arms as he collapsed to his knees. He was finding that it was difficult to speak, either from the Berserker rage or from adrenaline. “you... y-you little shit… look at me. D-don’t go! Hey!”
They couldn't die… no, not now! They… they meant so much to him…
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