Amidst the sweeping verdancy of the Freyvald grasslands, where the sky brushed the earth in a tender horizon, there was a boy named June. Clad in blue overalls over a white t-shirt, his nimble fingers danced over the vibrant array of flowers that seemed to hum with enchanted life – owing their existence to the ancient runes that June had tirelessly sought throughout his bold adventures. He had dark red hair and dark pink eyes with freckles, and he was around 16 years old.
With each plant uniquely mirroring the runes once etched in forgotten tombs and hidden crypts, June's garden of magic was more than mere flora; it was a living tapestry of his journeys, pulsating with otherworldly energy. Each petal and leaf was a memory, each scent a story untold as the boy carefully sorted through his blossoming treasures.
"Hold on, Vidar's Veil, you need a bit more sunlight today," he murmured affectionately to a silver flower with petals that shimmered against the touch of dawn's early light. June maneuvered the potted bloom with the utmost care, placing it where the sun's embrace was gentlest, allowing its distinctive magic to flourish.
He then turned his attention to the fiery-hearted Astan Bloom, its core glowing like the embers of a distant, ethereal flame. "You're insatiable, aren't you?" June chuckled as he fed it a sprinkle of crushed minerals, the remnants of a mountaintop adventure that had almost been his last. Its warm pulsations increased in tempo, as if in gratitude for the nourishment.
With the flowers attended to, June brought forth a carved oaken bucket imbued with runic etchings, which whispered of ancient earth and endless sky. He carefully collected water from a nearby brook, its purity capable of sustaining the arcane life of his peculiar garden.
"Thirsty, Norn's Whisper?" he asked a delicate bloom with sapphire-like leaves that hummed with a soft, melodious tone. As June watered the plant, droplets graced its leaves, creating ripples of sound that harmonized with the tune of the grasslands.
One peculiar plant, the Skald's Eye, caught June's vigilant gaze. Its vibrant azure petals enclosed a golden center that watched over the garden as if it knew the secrets of the cosmos. "Still keeping an eye out for trouble?" June teased, knowing the plant held protective magic within its gaze. He pruned the surrounding foliage to ensure its sightline remained clear – a sentinel amid the enchantment.
June worked tirelessly, moving amidst the fruits of his devotion, a sole guardian to botanical wards. He was a maestro orchestrating the symphony of growth and care, ensuring each rune-crafted flower bloomed to its utmost potential. The Freyvald grasslands stood witness to this serene ritual of nurture and nature's embrace, a hidden corner of the world alive with silent magic.
As the day neared its end and the glimmer of twilight began to touch the edge of Freyvald, June stood back to admire his work. A sense of accomplishment filled his chest as he witnessed the balance of light and shadow play across his ethereal charges. "Every rune, every adventure was worth it," he declared with a whispered fervor, his solitary statement carried away by the gentle wind of the grasslands.
June nestled himself amongst his flowers, confident in the knowledge that their magic would protect and prosper under his care. The boy and his garden were as one, and under the watchful eyes of the stars above, June's heart brimmed with contentment, sanctified by the arcane and the wild.
June treaded lightly upon the undulating path that carved through the heart of Vinthor Woods, where the trees stood guard like ancient sentinels. Each step he took was silent, a skill he honed from his time amidst the Freyvald grasslands where the slightest sound could disturb the delicate balance of his magical garden. Here, in Vinthor, the air was thick with the musk of pine and the earthy fragrance of moist soil after a fresh rainfall.
A light mist hung between the towering trees, creating a mystical veil that seemed to separate the world of man from the realm of the arcane. Sunlight found its way through the canopy in rare but resplendent shafts, illuminating the moss-blanketed roots and the verdant ferns that thrived in the otherwise dim understory.
As he ventured deeper into the woods, June's ears picked up the distant harmonies of woodland sprites. Their ethereal song wove through the air, a melody both haunting and beautiful. The sprites fluttered in the periphery, a radiant spectrum of translucent wings and tender luminescence, guiding lost travelers and whispering secrets of the forest to those who listened.
Occasionally, the sprites' calming presence was interrupted by the mischievous laughter of forest dwarves amidst their games of craft and chase. The stubby, bearded figures rarely showed themselves to human eyes, but their handiwork was evident in the expertly carved trinkets and baubles they left dangling from the boughs.
June caught glimpses of shadows flitting through the trees – the stealthy silhouettes of elkin hunters, humanoid creatures with velvety antlers, pursuing game with a silence that rivaled his own. They moved with such grace that not a single twig snapped under their cloven hooves, a testament to their symbiosis with the Vinthor Woods.
In a clearing, humans of the forest practiced drills with their wooden swords, their movements fluid and diligent. They were part of a community that had taken residence at the woodland's edge, a people that lived by the sword as much as by the ploughshare. June watched them from a safe distance, admiring their discipline and unity.
He continued on, the sound of clinking metal and hearty laughter drawing his attention to an encampment where blacksmiths forged their iron. Strikes of the hammer against the anvil kept a rhythm with the heart of the forest, while sparks flew like fireflies into the air, dissipating among the leaves above.
Around a great oak, a solitary druid chanted an ages-old incantation, the words old and powerful. The energy that flowed from her hands was a tangible force, feeding the flora, guiding the fauna, and maintaining the subtle, vital balance that kept the Vinthor Woods thriving against the encroachments of outside forces.
June's path then led him by a merchant caravan making a brief stop in the woods. Their colorful wares spilled out onto makeshift stalls, and animated haggling filled the air as forest dwellers bartered for exotic spices, fabrics, and curiosities from far-off lands. June observed the exchanges with a fond smile, recognizing the importance of such interludes of commerce and camaraderie.
As dusk began to descend upon Vinthor Woods, an air of caution settled over June. Shadows lengthened and what was once clear became obscured by the deceptive play of twilight. His hands hovered near the pouch of runes tied to his belt – a quiet reassurance of his ability to protect himself if need be.
Lanterns hung from branches flickered to life, their soft glow barely penetrating the dense thicket, but enough to guide the inhabitants of the woods safely along the snaking paths. Wisps gathered around the lights, basked in their warmth, and provided a guiding beacon for the nocturnal animals that started to stir.
June's keen eyes caught sight of fresh tracks masked beneath the litter of fallen leaves—a sign that others had recently passed this way. He followed the trail with a measured pace, always alert, ready to use his runic magic should the need arise.
His senses now fully attuned to the sounds and whispers of the night, June noticed a subtle shift in the Vinthor's breath—a hint of malevolence that didn't belong in the otherwise harmonious symphony of the woods. He sensed a prickle of unease, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. A clutch of bandits, notorious for preying on the unwary, crept behind him just out of sight.
As the shadows of the bandits followed him like silent specters, he wove through the trees tactically, every step deliberate, silently invoking the runes that would shield him should the conflict become inevitable.
June's boots had left their imprint on the damp underbrush, tracing his back-and-forth pacing amidst the Vinthor Woods. In his hands, he clutched an ornate map that crackled with each anxious fold and adjustment. The map itself was a parchment masterpiece, outlined with the meticulous draughtsmanship of a long-lost cartographer. It depicted the sprawling terrain of the Gormundrik Kingdom, a vast expanse of land known for its lush valleys, treacherous mountain ranges, and, nestled within, the town of Halstorvik—a center of trade and convergence for rune seekers and mystics.
"Aw man. I think I'm lost."
'I hope not. I have to deliver these flowers to that blacksmith.'
Halstorvik was marked on the map with a stylized heraldic crest: a serpent entwined around a hammer. The serpentine path leading to the town was scribbled with runic annotations, likely June's own shorthand for landmarks or warnings. Entangled forests, crossed swords signifying historical battlegrounds, and small runes etched beside mountain passes; each symbol told of the kingdom's long and vibrant history.
Yet, as June's brow furrowed in concentration, the map provided more confusion than guidance. Each feature seemed to blend together, with no discernible path making itself apparent. He traced the route for the tenth time, yet no clarity came. With a sigh of frustration, he leaned against a nearby tree, map dangling idly in one hand.
"I can do this. I definitely can do this. You got this. I don't got this. I got this. I thought I had this under control. Craaap."
Meanwhile, in the seclusion of the underbrush, hidden figures clad in dark attire exchanged murmurs. "I heard June wasn't a fighter, he just grows flowers from the runes. This will be an easy game," whispered one bandit, his dagger reflecting the dwindling light as he polished it with a rag.
"Comes from some unknown world, but comes here to plant flowers? What a fucking joke," scoffed another, his eyes fixed on June's oblivious form in the distance. Their snickers were low and tainted with condescension, safe in their concealed vantage point.
A third bandit, the apparent leader, peered through the leaves, studying June's movements. "Keep it down. We'll take his stock of flowers on his back, and give it to the boss, and we'll be in for a big payday," he murmured with avarice glittering in his eyes. "Mythic flowers sell big around here by the big leagues. Imagine how much they'll pay for a blooming Draugr's Woe or a cluster of Fenris Buds?"
"You actually remember those names?"
"That kid goes around parading those flowers in the other town on the other side of the Heunhel sea filled with all of those mermaids."
An eager nod from his companions confirmed their shared anticipation of the reward. "Those flowers are not like the common daisies sold at Halstorvik's market. They carry the ancient powers of the realms. Folk, even in the High Seat of Kings, would kill for such enchantments. I wonder what the hell he does to create them. What's IN them, is the question."
"The boss has acquainted buyer connections, you know. Last time a traveler brought a Nightshade Bloom, they say the Alchemist's Guild brokered it into a pact with the shadow merchants of Skelmir. He was set for three lifetimes," one bandit recounted, his eyes alight with greed.
"And don't forget," interjected another, whose eyes were as sharp as the blade they fondled. "With June's plants, we might even leverage secrets from the Scrollkeepers of Bolverk Hall, or barter passage through the Eyrdaal Mountains without dealing with those nasty trolls."
"You think that guy who can rewrite reality into his own fiction would want a flower from this kid?"
"Nah. That guy is too busy with the entire world trying to hunt him. Fuck that guy."
They chuckled collectively, relishing their fantasies of wealth and stature. In their hiding, plotting their ambush.
Back under the canopy, June allowed himself a final glance at the perplexing map before carefully rolling it up. A thoughtful expression crossed his features, a hint of a plan sparking behind his eyes. He was uncertain of his next move, but even as the bandits sized him up as an easy target, June's reputation as a non-combatant provided him with an unexpected cloak of deception. Whether it would be his salvation or undoing in the grasping hands of Vinthor remained to be seen.
The bandits, emboldened by greed and the cover of twilight's shadows, sprang forward in a frenzied rush towards June. Their bodies were wreathed in colored auras, the product of their imbued magical weaponry—blue, green, and crimson energies crackling around their forms like living fire. Each step they took left a faint luminescent echo in the air, betraying their positions even as they advanced with predatory speed.
Bound by intent and silent as the grave, they closed in on their unsuspecting quarry. One brandished a curved scimitar that glowed with an ethereal light, another held a set of spiked knuckles shimmering with viridian energy, and the third bore a longbow, strings vibrating with ominous power, poised to release a deadly, luminous arrow.
'We got the brat!' One of the bandits thought.
In the fraction of a heartbeat, as the first footfalls of June's attackers disturbed the forest floor, a surge of alertness flooded his veins. He did not merely reach into his bag; he preempted destiny itself, his practiced hand emerging with a single rose. Its petals were as red as the twilight, yet its stem seemed to hum with dormant force.
The rose metamorphosed spectacularly at his touch, the petals twisting and unfurling into the deadly silhouette of a jagged-edged dagger, pulsing with an intense golden glow. With a dancer's grace and the ferocity of a cornered beast, June spun around, the air splitting with a sonorous hum as the blade arced through the space occupied by his assailants.
Contact was both swift and devastating—a merciless ballet of one against three. As June's figure completed the whirlwind motion, a shockwave of elemental force exploded from the blade's trajectory. The air itself seemed to tear, creating ripples of kinetic power that lashed the surrounding trees, stripping leaves and snapping branches with the ferocity of an unleashed storm.
The bandits, caught utterly off-guard by the fierce counter, were cleaved in twain without time to utter a word. Their auras extinguished as bodies and magical energies dissipated into nothingness. The ground was stained with dark, iridescent blood, an ephemeral reminder of lives swiftly ended, and the silence that followed was a deafening testament to June's deadly prowess.
Breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of the moment passed, June slowly turned to survey the aftermath. The lush undergrowth of the Vinthor Woods was now marred by a clear line of destruction—a swathe of exposed earth and fragmented plant life that marked the ferocity of his strike.
He let the dagger revert back into its original rose form before gingerly placing it back into his satchel. His fingers danced swiftly over the collection of rare flora contained within, checking for damaged stems or bruised petals.
Satisfied that his precious cargo had endured the fray unscathed, June allowed himself a quiet, relieved, "Phew... All's well." His pulse began to calm as the adrenaline waned from his limbs, leaving behind the stark reminder of the violence he so deeply wished to avoid.
He turned to the bodies of the bandits, saying, "I hate fighting, really. I don't mean to hurt anyone. I just..if I don't defend myself, I'll lose. I'm happy here, from my world called earth, I hated every second of it. Now I have to make sure I'm not hunted."
June shed a tear, saying, "I don't wanna do this.."
With one final, regretful look at the devastation his self-defense had wrought, June shouldered his bag and walked away from the scene. The darkness of the woods seemed to swallow him up, a solitary figure moving with the certainty of one who understood the burden of his own strength—neither the naive pacifist the bandits had mocked, nor the merciless killer they had now learned him to be.
In the shadowed quarters of a grand, timber-framed hall, the air hung thick with the scent of burning pine and the low murmur of discontent. At the head of a long, roughly hewn table sat Bjorn Ironside, his rough pale skin, bald head, bear tattoo above his golden eyes, and burly silhouette barely contained by the high-backed chair carved with serpentine dragons and runes of old. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the oaken surface, worn smooth by countless war councils and plotting sessions.
Bjorn's voice, deep and resonant, broke the uneasy silence. "Our coffers grow lighter by the day," he grumbled, his eyes narrowing to slits as he surveyed his inner circle. "Trade routes are barren, and our raids yield less each moon. Something fouls the wind, brothers, and I'll wager my axe it's that accursed reality-bender."
A chorus of grunts and murmurs of agreement fluttered among the gathered men, their faces a mix of rugged lines and scars, eyes reflecting the flicker of torchlight. They knew the tales, whispers of a man who could reshape the very fabric of existence to his whims. It was said kingdoms had fallen silent in their search for him, a shadow upon the land that no light could reveal.
"Mark my words," Bjorn continued, his voice a low growl, "he rewrites the world to his liking, and we are but pawns in his game. But I'll not be bested by a lesser man. Our strength will overcome this sorcery and restore our fortunes. If my men come back with the flower batch from that passive florist brat everyone's talking about, then we'll get back on the right track."
Outside Bjorn's stronghold, concealed by the dense foliage of the encroaching forest, a figure stood poised. June, eyes ablaze with purpose, surveyed the camp with a predator's gaze. His muscles coiled, ready to unleash the fury he harbored within. With a thought, his frame shimmered, and seven arms sprouted from his torso, each one sinewy and strong, ending in fingers that crackled with the energy of black and red orbs.
The area was about to erupt in violence.
'I hoped to come to this world for a new start. Not violence. Just to be a florist here, since my small shop on earth didn't end well. And because of that, I lost the things I loved most. And I ended it, I couldn't take it. But here in this world I have the opportunity to be a way better florist, going on adventures and stuff, it's really exciting. I hate violence, and I never had to defend myself here, but if I want to live a peaceful life, I have to destroy all of the roots that are tied to me. Here, I can sell my flowers to happy customers, and not worry about a bunch of people in suits trying to get monthly checks from me. I want to keep the happiness of me crafting mythical flowers..not violence. I know if I don't do this, they'll come for me, I don't want that. My flowers would be in danger. I don't want that. And killing is wrong, but it's the only way to permanently get rid of the bad people.'
June stepped forth, his movements a blur of speed and power. As he approached the first watchtower, the guards barely had time to sound the alarm before he was upon them. His seven arms lashed out, orbs of dark energy exploding upon impact, sending splinters of wood and screams into the night.
"What the-?! Who's that?!"
"It's that kid!"
"The flower boy!"
The camp roused in chaos, men scrambling for weapons as June's form danced through the shadows, a specter of vengeance. Each step was calculated, his superhuman strength rending doors from hinges and tossing foes aside like rag dolls.
With a guttural cry, June began an ancient dance, his body and arms flowing and moving with the fluidity like a flame in the wind. The ground trembled, and from the earth rose Gunjo, a large wolf, his fur a tapestry of red and black flames. The beast's eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence as it joined June's side, ready to bring ruin upon those who dared defy them.
Gunjo lunged forward, his jaws snapping shut around a bandit's torso, lifting the man into the air as screams mingled with the sound of tearing flesh. The wolf's flaming fur set the surroundings alight, creating a circle of fire that spread rapidly through the camp.
June, amidst the carnage, moved with deadly grace. His arms, now weapons of destruction, sent orbs careening into the fray, each one finding its mark with lethal precision. Blood and embers painted a macabre scene as the camp became a slaughterhouse, the cries of the dying echoing into the night.
Bjorn's quarters burst open as he and his men emerged, weapons drawn, faces set in grim determination. They had not expected this assault, this force of nature that now decimated their ranks. But Bjorn Ironside would not cower.
"To arms!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. "We are sons of the north! No demon nor sorcerer shall break our spirit!"
The bandits rallied to their leader, forming a shield wall as they had done in countless battles before. But this was no ordinary foe. June, with Gunjo at his flank, crashed into their defenses like a tide of annihilation.
Bjorn slung his axe with the might of his namesake, the iron side of the weapon, but June caught it with his mouth, chomping down on it, shattering it. And at the exact same time, Gunjo chomped down on a lagg red e party of the camp, eliminating more bandits.
Gunjo's fiery breath swept over the shield wall, charring wood and flesh alike. The heat was intense, the smell of burning death filling the air as the bandits' formation crumbled.
June's superhuman speed was a blur among the defenders, his seven arms a whirlwind of devastation. He tore through the bandits with a ferocity that spoke of deep-seated rage, orbs exploding with a concussive force that sent bodies flying.
"He's too fast!"
"I thought he wasn't a fighter?!"
The bandit camp sprawled across the rugged terrain, a sprawl of tents and wooden structures that had been cobbled together to form a makeshift fortress. The night was calm, the stars overhead a silent audience to the violence that was about to unfold. In the center of the camp, the largest building loomed, its Norse-inspired architecture a testament to the bandits' leader, Bjorn Ironside.
Within the warmth of his quarters, Bjorn sat surrounded by his closest allies. The fire crackled in the hearth as he spoke, his voice heavy with frustration.
June stood at the edge of the camp, his heart pounding with the sadness of the hunt. He felt the power coursing through his veins, the ability to grow seven arms and shoot orbs of dark energy, the dance that would summon Gunjo, and the superhuman strength and speed that made him a warrior of legend.
As he slipped through the shadows, June's limbs multiplied, a terrifying sight to behold. The guards on the lookout never stood a chance; before they could raise the alarm, they were struck down by the orbs, their cries of alarm turning into gurgles as their lifeblood seeped into the earth.
The camp burst into pandemonium as June unleashed his wrath. His seven arms were a blur, orbs flying with deadly precision, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. The bandits scrambled to arm themselves, but June was a torrent of chaos, his movements too quick for the eye to follow.
He began the ancient dance, the ground shaking beneath his feet. The air grew hot, and with a roar that shook the heavens, Gunjo materialized, a massive wolf with fur of flickering flames. The bandits' shouts turned to screams as Gunjo bounded forward, tearing into them with fiery fangs.
Bjorn, hearing the commotion, grabbed his axe and stormed out, his men at his heels. They were met with a scene from the deepest pits of Hel. Bodies lay strewn about, tents aflame, and in the center of it all stood June, a demon of vengeance, his wolf companion by his side.
"To battle!" Bjorn roared, and the clash of steel rang out as he engaged June. The two were a whirlwind of violence, Bjorn's axe meeting June's arms, sparks flying with each impact. But for every strike Bjorn landed, June answered with a barrage of orbs, their explosive force driving the bandits back.
Gunjo howled, a sound that pierced the soul, and the fire that clung to his fur spread, turning the camp into an inferno. The bandits fought desperately, but they were outmatched by the supernatural might of June and his companion.
As the fight continued, June's superhuman speed allowed him to weave through his enemies, his arms a deadly symphony of motion. Each orb that he unleashed found its mark, sending bandits flying, their armor useless against the mystical energy.
Bjorn fought like a man possessed, his axe a blur as he sought to defend his camp, but the tide of battle was against him. With every fallen bandit, June's power seemed only to grow, his orbs tearing through the lines with increased fervor.
Gunjo moved like a creature of myth, his flames rendering armor and flesh to ash. The wolf's savagery was matched only by the precision of June's strikes, a dance of death that left no room for mercy.
The once mighty bandit camp was reduced to a hellscape, the ground slick with blood and embers. As Bjorn's men fell one by one, the chieftain's roars of defiance grew ragged, his strength waning against the relentless assault.
June's arms, now instruments of pure destruction, continued to wreak havoc. Each orb that he thrust into the fray resulted in another explosion, another life extinguished.
June and Gunjo advanced through the inferno they had created, their forms wreathed in red and black flames that licked the air with a hunger for destruction. The chaos around them was a stark contrast to the calm determination etched across June's youthful face. He was the eye of the storm, a quiet center in a maelstrom of his own making.
Bjorn Ironside, his figure imposing even in the face of such supernatural might, stood his ground as the pair approached. His camp lay in ruins, his warriors defeated, and yet his spirit remained unbroken. "What the hell do you want?" he demanded, his voice a growl of defiance in the flickering light of his burning world.
June's expression softened, the innocence of his youth shining through the grim visage of the warrior. "They came to get me," he began, his voice steady and clear, "to rob and kill. I never wished for violence. But I have a duty to protect myself. I hate fighting, I really really do. I'm innocent. But if I don't defend myself, I won't be able to live peacefully."
"You claim you wanna live peacefully, but just slaughtered over a hundred men and an entire camp, you have magic similar to the demon kings. How do you know no one is watching? That my connections won't come after you?"
From within his tunic, June drew a slender dagger, its hilt blooming into the shape of a rose, its petals crafted from the finest steel. The weapon was named Blomstrende Død, the Blossoming Death, a tool of last resort for a boy who abhorred conflict.
"With Blomstrende Død, I looked into the memories of your men," June continued. "I saw their memories and saw exactly where you where I cleaved your men in half.. I noticed how strong I was, and how I could easily wield my magic. But I came here to cut this conflict at its root—to ensure I am not hunted. In the memories, I saw you discussing and raging because business is bad, and that your connections aren't really too happy with you for bad business and false promises of goods not delivered or up to par. And I checked this entire perimeter. No one is here, Gunjo would also be able to smell them. No one would know I was here."
Bjorn's eyes flickered with the reflection of his burning camp, and his stance softened as he realized the futility of further resistance. "I was only in it for the money," he admitted, his voice less certain, the plea of a man who had gambled and lost. "We meant no harm to you personally, boy. I know you mean well, I heard tales of you being a cheery boy with a smile always on his face. I always wanted to be that happy. My family grew up in poverty, and that's what led to this."
"…Okay."
June's gaze held Bjorn's, searching for the truth in the chieftain's words. "Promise me," June said, "promise you will not hunt me down, and I will spare you. I don't wanna fight anymore."
Bjorn nodded, the proud chieftain's nod a surrender to the inevitable. "I promise," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you have my word."
Satisfied, June turned to leave, Gunjo at his side, the flames slowly receding from their bodies. But as they walked away, Bjorn, driven by desperation and the instinct to survive, seized his fallen axe and lunged at June's back, his voice rising in scorn. "Gullible child!"
But Gunjo was ever-watchful, the beast's connection to June deeper than any bond of mere companions. With a speed that belied his size, Gunjo intercepted the chieftain, his jaws closing around Bjorn with a finality that silenced his treachery.
The betrayal lay unfinished, Bjorn's scornful words cut short as Gunjo's teeth found their mark. The wolf's flames consumed the chieftain, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his failed deceit.
June paused for a moment, looking back at the smoldering remains of the camp, his heart heavy with the burden of his power. The Blossoming Death was sheathed once more, its deadly petals hidden from the world. And with Gunjo by his side, June disappeared into the night, leaving the ruins of conflict behind, hopeful for a future without the need for such sorrowful displays of his might.
June forced a smile, rubbing Gunjo, "Okay! Enough of this, we're heading to the town now! Lets not stay any longer than we should!"