Hey guys, i wrote this for my school's creative writing assesment, and now that its been handed in and graded, i thought i'd share it with you. Its short, and details how Olaf left Lokvar and arrived on Runeterra. Enjoy
The Wrath of Lokvar
Imagine hell. A cold hell, frozen, where surviving a day is a feat considered impossible by civilised man. A place where ice is the apex predator, with wolves, bears and the half mad barbarians who live there all falling victim to its fierce bite.
Hell exists, far from the utopia of Demacia or the proud depravity of Noxus, the peace of Bandle City or the technical innovation of Piltover.
Lokvar, Hell on Earth, was the birthplace of Olaf, a warrior who would rival the legend of Conan himself. A man requires a certain madness to survive in Lokvar, and Olaf was able to thrive. He would use the rage that built up inside of him to overcome any obstacle Lokvar threw at him, whether that obstacle was Lokvar’s harsh winters, her raging sea-tempest, or a pack of wolves drawn to your fire, and hungry for the meat on your bones.
“To your left, Glimli! Keep him back!” Olaf cried.
“Aye, I see him, mongrel aint getting me.” Glimli replied.
“Tryndamere, circle the fire, don’t let ‘em get around us”
“On it Olaf, I count twenty odd sets of eyes.” Tryndamere cursed.
“Twenty on three? Aye, seems fair enough.” He grinned.
The fire at Olaf’s back picked out markings on his helm and bracers, the iron gleaming in the night air. His axes appeared to absorb the red of the fire, matching the eyes that stared down the rabid wolf that slowly approached him. Moonlight gleamed off of fangs, and silver hides rippled over the powerful muscles that propelled the wolf into the air. Olaf swung his axe. Blood flew, steel bit. Wolves snarled, bit and scratched, then yelped in pain as Olaf’s axes broke hide, flesh and bone. A red mist grasped the air as Olaf’s arms wind milled, crushing the life out of wolf after wolf. Seeing his victory at hand, he leaped towards the final wolf. Mid-flight, his ankle caught the carcass of a wolf and he fell flat on his front. Twisting, he had just enough time to see the gleaming fangs, the lolling tongue and the bright amber eyes that reflected victory, before Glimli’s spear caught the mongrel in the throat and he was showered in a fountain of blood.
Picking himself up, Olaf surveyed the scene. Wolf carcasses littered the ground in a ring around the fire, and his two companions were still standing.
“Glimli, ye be alright boy? Trynd?” Olaf asked.
“Aye mate, a few scratches nothing more” Glimli replied.
“Well I’ll be, I sprung a leak!” Tryndamere laughed. “Nothing a good bit o’ grease won’t fix but, by Odin Olaf, you’re a mass of blood!”
It was true, wolf blood coated Olaf’s axes and wrists. The horns of his helmet and the markings of his bracers were coated in a fine red mist. Blood ran from clawed rifts in his face and neck to dye his bear fur vest crimson. His arms were covered in scratches and bites, many of them already scabbing over.
“Bah, it’s a scratch boy, most of it aint even mine! Now, who’s hungry? The fire be warm, the meat be fresh, and I doubt we’ll be bothered again tonight.”
Olaf was barely 17 when he encountered the wolves, and between then and the age of 21, he’d raided clan and monastery time and again, earning much wealth and fame in the process. His long boat, the Ragnarok, struck fear into the hearts of the strongest men when the crimson crested dragon head cut through the mist. It was this fame that brought him before Jarl Strongaxe, the king of his clan.
“Olaf, your deeds have brought you great fame, and Honour to our people” Strongaxe proclaimed.
“Thank ye, m’lord.”
“Aye Olaf, ye be a fierce tyrant in Lokvar, and even in Stockholm and far off Freljiord. But I have a task fer ye boy, that will make ye known and feared even further. I have heard tell, of a land far to the west, where the land is green and warm, and life is easy. As such, the people of this land are weak. Ripe for plundering by a fearless warrior.”
“What would you have me do, m’lord?” Olaf queried, already knowing the answer.
“Take the Ragnarok west. Find this land. Map it, mark it and measure it. Then burn it, and take it for everything its worth!”
“As you wish, m’lord.”
That was how Olaf left hell, his home. Bound for an unknown destination in a vague direction, with little knowledge of what awaited him or how he’d get back. A bitter wind blew them along, forcing the icy tendrils of rain along his body. He stood at the helm, indifferent to the weather, determined that they should keep their course no matter the weather. Angry waves smashed swollen fists into the side of his vessel, many towering above it to crash furiously upon the deck. Though it was the worst sea-faring storm he had ever seen, Olaf had faith in the Ragnarok. A little too much faith.
The wind through itself into the sails, causing the ropes to howl like the demented spirits of sailors drowned at sea. Lightning tore the heavens and thunder mocked the roar of dragons as Olaf narrowed his eyes and ploughed on. The entire ship groaned with the beating, and men worked furiously, stowing the sails and pulling the oars lest the sea’s turn their vessel. Surveying it all, Olaf felt his mind go blank. Though he saw frenzied activity, he heard nothing. He was numb to the rain, feeling only the coarse wood beneath his hands.
An ethereal wind blew across his face, stirring the charts and extinguishing the lanterns. Olaf felt the wind, could hear it, and within it heard the mourning of all the souls of Lokvar, saying goodbye.
With a crack louder than any gunshot, a bolt of lightning arced down and struck the mast, splitting it in two and setting it ablaze. The flames quickly leapt to the spars and dripped down to the deck, headless of the soaked timbers. A norseman who’d strayed too close to the flames cried out in horror as the fire embraced his arm, melting the flesh and revealing bone. This then, was no ordinary flame, but a raging witch-fire. Realising the peril of his ship, Olaf gave the order.
“ABANDON SHIP! Into the sea, ye dogs, and pray Thor has mercy on your souls!”
There was a brilliant flash as the Ragnaroks powder keg ignited, and Olaf was hurled head over heels into the sea.
Cold and wet.
These were the sensations Olaf awoke too. He was floating on the Ragnaroks dragon figurehead. Though his armour and weapons weighed him down, he clung to them. The current was pulling him westward and he felt, if he survived, that he would need them.