Something wicked this way comes.

[meatpopsicle]

(Really? A biographies section? Oh, you so asked for it...)

Chapter 1: Coming of Age
Born to a poor woodsman and his homely wife in the town of Huginfel in a far-off land of Midgard, Asmund Sigurnsen spent most of his life as any other young Norse child might. He fished, he hunted, he learned religion and folklore as passed down orally, he got in to fights. The usual. However, upon his thirteenth year, just as he was becoming a man, war came to his homeland. Having developed the understanding of Loki's portents, the young man watched with a curious eye as metal-clad invaders ravaged villages, killing all in their wake. When they got to Huginfel and slaughtered those he knew, they crossed the line. The young man (by this time fifteen) could no longer take to the woods and watch objectively. It was time to kill.

For many days--perhaps weeks--a battle was waged in the forests of northern Midgard, and the young Asmund did what he could to aid in the fights, armed with heavy bow and axe. One unfortunate day, however, all went black as a great weight fell upon his head by means of a horseman's mace. When he awoke, he found himself a prisoner in a foreign prison, his only view through bars into a hostile forest. He spent weeks in this place, abused and malnourished, attempting to learn the tongue of his darker-skinned captors and their odd magic-wielding allies. Eventually he learned just enough to know when to strike. When the time was right, during one of his scheduled beatings, the new fight began.

The same cruel guard who once beat him daily found himself ambushed, his sword drawn away from him and plunged through his chest. Panting and screaming at the top of his lungs, the young Asmund fought his way out of the dungeon, along the way freeing as many prisoners as he could find. Some would then aid him in his journey back to his homeland, which he found needed him all too badly. Ravaged by war, plague, and the punishment of angry gods, a dark age had fallen on Midgard. Knowing what he must do, the lad--now nineteen years of age--pledged himself to the powers of Loki and his cunning in an effort to use evil to combat evil. This would be his first of many mistakes.

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Chapter 2: The Dark Age
A trial by fire awaited Asmund, and as was only fitting the fire forged an entirely new man: "Sevekor," a name derived from a myth of "he who walks the shadowy path," a being of pure dread and merciless slaughter. For years Sevekor and his countrymen fought off invaders in their own lands, learning to harness their wits and their steel to win key victories, even attacking the invaders in their own country of origin. On one such skirmish, the combined forces of Midgard chose to make the most daring attack of all, marching on the enemy castle of "Kahmhullot." Garbed in fierce black fur of the most dangerous wolves of the land and with tough leather protecting his own skin, Sevekor was certain his choice to join in the first wave of the assault would be a wise one. The arrow that pierced his heart begged to differ, as he and countless other Norsemen would die that day.

For Sevekor, a devoted killer and follower of the old ways, death was only the beginning. His rage-filled heart and devotion to Loki's ramblings barred him entry to Valhalla, instead casting him down to Nifleheim, the Land of the Dead. It was here that Sevekor felt oddly at peace, welcomed with open arms by the daughter of his Patron, Hel the Half-Dead. Appreciative of all he had done to fill her realm with souls, she made the man an offer he could not refuse.

"Find for me a way to assure Ragnarok, and you shall live forever, a beloved servant of Loki and myself."
"And if I do not?" replied the man.
"Then you shall suffer the same fate as all others in my kingdom: eternal death. I shall rend the skin from your body day after day, bleeding you out until death. Come morning, you shall find new life only to die again. Believe me, mortal. I do not grow bored with such."
"I...shall comply. But on one condition!"
"Name it."
"Not here. Not Midgard. Not Anglund. Not Eirlund. Not this plane."

A painful flash of light and the worst burning sensation of his life, and Sevekor awoke on the docks of an unknown port. His body restored life, his cheeks and hair returned their color...his prowess taken from him. "You will have to prove yourself," a male voice said inside his head, "but know this: When it is in my power, you shall not die. You cannot die. You will always return. Go now, and deliver unto my daughter souls. Your lord Loki commands it."
Grasping his sword and bow, Sevekor entered a nearby building in an unfamiliar tongue: "Information Booth."

[meatpopsicle]

Chapter 3: Talus
The years of relative isolation were difficult on the warrior Sevekor, but he soon learned many of the tongues of his new land, and more importantly he learned their magics; their weapons; their tactics. For years he used what he could find to his advantage, killing whomever stood in his way and aiding no-one. Not even kings were safe from his reign of terror, seemingly supported--if not encouraged--by the demon Cthorna who claimed rulership of this new realm. He soon rose in power, eliminating rival bands of assassins and staring down entire armies into retreat, but then the unexpected occurred: Sevekor succeeded.

The world came into turmoil as great gaping portals opened from all the levels of the Hells and beyond, demon armies descending upon the world. Countless thousands were either killed or enslaved within days, and only a relative handful were left to fight the demon invaders. All seemed to look well for Sevekor's plans of Ragnarok, and he rested peacefully, watching the carnage and waiting for his reward. All he received was a painful yank into the beyond.

"You fool!" boomed an enraged Hel. "Do you not realize what you have done?!"
"I...I have brought forth Ragnarok, Mistress. I have done as you asked--as I have been marked."
"No, you simpleton. Demons do not HAVE mortal souls. Hence why they do not live in my realm. Also, whomever they kill LOSES his soul. They are taking perfectly good souls from me! They are weakening me!"
"I...I did not know. Is there--"
A great crash of rolling thunder lit up the sky, a massive bolt striking Sevekor in the exact location of the fateful arrow's strike. He reeled in pain, doubling over and coughing up blood. All seemed warm and cold at the same time as the world about him boomed.
"You are the demon's bane. You will not die--cannot die--by their hands. Go now. End their threat. Save that pitiful world...and doom it to MY ends!"

Sevekor awoke in a pile of sand, the sun beating down on his brow. Dark metal armor wrapped around his body, two swords laying at his side. In the distance a deep rumbling laugh was heard: the Demon War waged on. He quickly rose to his feet as memories rushed back in to his head. He remembered the emergency councils. He remembered his appointment as Alvar's king. He remembered leading what army he could muster to the northern deserts to close the largest gate into the Hells. He remembered...he was under attack!

In a quick turn Sevekor grabbed his swords in hands, slashing the air fiercely just in time to render a strange spiderlike being in half. These basic scouts for the demonic hordes had been hunting him for days, killing most of his army save but he and a few others. Looking around, he saw no sign of his comrades, but he did see a billowing green and orange column of unholy fire in the distance. Placing his helmet firmly back on his head, he marched on just in time to see the unthinkable.

A great demon horde had descended on the last of Talus's defenders, tearing gaping holes in to their armor as they struggled. One of the last demonic princes watched from above, taunting the overwhelmed heroes as their very limbs were beginning to shred, the might of demonic strength tearing them asunder. With each drop of blood, each howl of pain, a new demon entered the world. All seemed hopeless.

"So, my evil brother, you have finally arrived," chuckled the prince of the dark depths.
"I have," Sevekor replied as he calmly cut his way through demons, seemingly in an effortless daze.
"It is a shame your friends will not survive. I have already slaughtered the one--Selric, was it? And this fool Raynolt shall meet his end as well."
"What must be must be."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Of course. After all, I remember something you do not, cur."

Sevekor stood but steps away from the throne of the demonic general. The stench of sulfur filled his lungs to the point of choking--an experience he often forgot of. A great maw into the unknown rest just below the cliff, and fires rose and licked all about. The landscape lay in ruin, demonic jibberings and the sounds of clashing and whirling steel the only sign that this itself was not Hell. The sky darkened. A painful cry of a man's death was heard below. Laughter followed.

"You see? Do you see, you fool? The last of your mighty allies has fallen. The others are too weak to handle my might. It does not matter what you remember, because it is all too late. I have won!"
"No. You forget I cannot die."

In a ferocious burst of speed, Sevekor sprinted towards the demon sovereign's throne, plunging his rapiers into his shoulders. As both cried out fiercely, the force of Sevekor's pounce snapped the throne from its resting place. Down they plunged off the cliff, demonic fires burning away all that was not of their own lands--all, that is, except for the demon and the demon's hunter. As they plunged, struggling in the air, Sevekor laughed.
"See you soon, you half-dead bi--"

The two fell into the portal as thunder shook the sky. A brilliant flash of light enveloped them both. The very earth quaked and the sky rained brilliant holy fire. Across the lands, all things demonic shattered and faded away. The world seemed saved. As the clean-up from the battle proceeded, the bodies of fallen heroes were found and their souls miraculously restored. Many speculated how this could be, and sought out the king...but he was no-where to be found. All that remained were two rapiers, melted and fused together in the sign of an X where the portal once stood wide open. Though cool too the touch, these swords would not budge from the stone they embedded themselves in to, almost as if protected by some manner of divine intervention.

Women wept; men cursed the heavens; children cried for their parents. The war with the demons had taken its toll on the world, and many valued lives were lost. Bards sang of the sacrifice of the hero, Sevekor, and many rallied to honor his name. For some, this meant a life of protection and charity. For others, this meant countless atrocities. Such was the nature of his reputation. In Alvar, a mural was painted to honor the heroic loss, showing a red-haired man in black armor grasping a horned being as they fell into a flame. A day of rememberance was called for, and all was good. Demons did not plague the lands for quite some time, and there is Sevekor to thank. From murderer to savior, to who knows what.

Of course, this was long before the days as they are now. Long before the advent of the Watchers. Long before the Freeblade Legion. Before the Akrona, before the countless wars, before the prophecy's fruition, before all our struggles. Some say that one day, when things are truly dark, Sevekor--Asmund--may show himself again. But who knows when that may be?

"This is all well and good, friend," a man said eating a leg of mutton around a campfire, "but why should I believe the drunken ramblings of some leper? Given, I'm amazed you can even talk, but..."
The man chuckled rudely, but the storyteller stayed calm. In the same polite and hospitable tone, he carefully responded.
"Because I remember things. Because I watch."
"Watch what?" the man interrupted.
"I watch for the end of things, when Sevekor will return and make a choice of his fate. And mine. And yours."
"Ridiculous. I don't have to listen to this," the man snorted. "Especially not from some bandaged fool who cannot even hunt for himself."
"Oh, I never said I couldn't hunt. In fact..."
At this, the leprous storyteller pulled a small, sharp knife from his boot. Carefully, he cut away the wool and bandages on his arm, revealing healthy skin adorned with a black-and-red tattoo depicting a wolf biting an arm at the wrist.
"I am perfectly capable of hunting...you."
With slight hand movements and archaic chanting, the area by the fire grew black. The man, so content to gorge himself, could only let out a quick sharp scream before the sound of his gurgling death was heard through the trees. Winged denizens of the forest fluttered, the wind blew, and all grew silent once more.

(Well, yeah, my writing skills are dusty, but you're absolutely right. "Heeeee's baaaaack!" Limited engagement, though, but what can I say? I missed Talus...)