The Tenth World - Valheim

Prologue - Midgard

Skeillr sat slumped against the front door of his home, cradling a few of his organs in his hands from where his stomach had been sliced open. No doubt he'd be dead soon.
The air was thick with the choking stench of burning buildings and burning flesh, the eyes of his enemies burning with passion and hatred.
Screams and battle-cries tore the air.
It had taken several men to overpower Skeillr, but with time and numbers they were able to fatigue him enough so as to finish the job. Not a single one of them remained breathing, however, and there was a veritable mountain of corpses strewn about the front porch where Skeillr sat, dying. The battle raged on, and he hadn't the intent nor the ability to get up and continue fighting. Skeillr's blood pooled around him, creating a larger puddle when it joined with that of his slain foes. Even though he was moments from death, Skeillr still managed to pull his lips back into a gruesome, bloody grin. He'd killed nine men with a wood-cutting axe.

They had taken his wife from him the week before.
She was visiting her father, Leif, at his farm out in the countryside when they'd attacked. A well-renown warrior herself, she managed to save her father, and buy him enough time to escape. When Leif had arrived to Skeillr and Freja's home, he was in a poor state. He relayed to the seaside village all he could of the attackers.

They had come from the east. Savages clad in fur, their faces and bodies painted crimson with the blood of their sacrifices. Whether this impromptu paint was made from human blood, or otherwise, remained undetermined. The way these brutal foreigners carried themselves and fought led Skeillr to fear the worst.

Skeillr could feel his consciousness fading as he spotted the leader of these Easterners. He was a brute of a man, his skin a pale hue, covered in strange yet vaguely familiar tattoos. He was jogging past, flanked by a handful of heavily-armoured men and women. They had a kind of wild fanaticism in the way they followed their leader. His head turned toward Skeillr, and their eyes met. The leader of the invaders held up a closed fist and slowed his pace. He and his bodyguard stopped just before the porch, and they stood for a moment, surveying their dead. The man's eyes never left Skeillr's.
"You did this?" he asked. His voice was a low whisper, yet carried well.
Skeillr tried to reply, but all that came out was an unpleasant, bloody gargle. Saliva and gore dribbled out of his mouth, and down his chin. Skeillr grimaced, a bit more than he had been, considering his insides were no longer entirely inside, and spat. A dark red clump splattered weakly out of his mouth towards the man. In return, he simply smiled, and began stepping over the bodies of his men that had surrounded Skeillr. As he came forward, a hand of his moved into a pouch on his belt.
"I have come here at the behest of our creator. I came here seeking you. Your name is known to me. You have slain many of my men today." Out of the pouch, he pulled a small sack.
Skeillr was shaking, though not so much from fear as from blood-loss. He could feel death looming over him like a dark shadow. As if one with death, the man came to stand over Skeillr.
He opened the small sack, reached his fingers in, and drew out a powder. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his entire body started shivering and he began mouthing something under his breath. Skeillr was sure he heard the name of the Allfather, Odin, said. The man's eyes snapped back quickly, and he went quiet, his body now still. Skeillr could do nothing but sit there as the man watched him. He'd hoped this guy would get it over with quickly. Dying is painful, and thirsty work. He'd have asked for water if his throat still functioned. Exsanguination is terribly dehydrating.
The man spoke. "You are worthy," he said, then threw the handful of powder over Skeillr, and turned to walk away. The only sounds Skeillr made were those of short, painful breaths. The breath of a man seconds from death.
Skeillr knew what the man meant. Valhalla. He had earned his place there by dying in such a way. They say the more men you take with you to Valhalla, the more honoured your place at the table. The Easterner stopped once he'd reached his men. He turned again towards Skeillr. "You will be reunited with your wife soon enough, though you will not know it."
He watched his enemies carry on into the heart of Skeillr's home village, killing and burning as they went.

Skeillr's vision began to fade. Soon the Valkyries would come and ferry him away. For a moment, he thought he imagined great black wings above him. He thought of his wife. I will see you soon, Freja. We will be together in Valhalla.
As he sat through the closing seconds of his life, Skeillr realized that those black wings were not a figment of his imagination. The sun was suddenly blocked out, and a loud flapping of wings gusted wind down onto him. A Valkyrie.

As he died, Skeillr felt himself enveloped in giant claws, and lifted off the ground. Finally, death had found him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

He was not bound for Valhalla.