Legacy: the Man From Hjelmdall
A (very bad) fanfic inspired by Disco Elysium
CHAPTER ONE: DAVE
The pile of corpses reached almost to Heaven, and atop it, bloodied and gasping with his immense axe raised aloft in triumph, stood The Man From Hjelmdall.
“DO YOU HEAR ME NOW?!” he cried to the sky, defying the Gods to ignore him, “DO YOU SEE?!”
In reply, the clouds broke open and a single shaft of light flickered into life, illuminating The Man From Hjelmdall’s amazing physique and glinting off the enormous axe, from whose blade blood still ran and dripped. A gust of wind caught up, tugging at The Man From Hjelmdall’s shredded armour and blonde hair that poured like a shitty stream over muddy rocks from beneath his metal helmet.
“RRRAAAAAAAWWWWWRRRRRRGGHGHGHGHGHGHG!one!11!!” screamed The Man From Hjelmdall, still brandishing his axe victoriously. After a long moment he paused, looked around, lowered his arm and nodded to himself. He really didn’t have any further plans, and it was only Wednesday. Maybe there was a nearby inn or tavern? Some good looking wenches and a jug of bad mead. And a blacksmith. Maybe.
Trouble was, he still had to get down from this fucking pile of bodies.
“Didn’t think of that when you were locked into slaughter-mode, did you?” called a voice from somewhere within the pile. The Man From Hjelmdall glanced about in confusion: he was certain everything but him was dead here.
“WHERE ARE YOU?” called The Man From Hjelmdall.
“No need to shout. Just down here, fella,” came the reply.
The Man From Hjelmdall looked about himself for a long moment, feeling increasingly unsteady on top of the haphazardly stacked slain enemies. The ray of sunshine narrowed and shifted a little until it fell upon a wildly waving hand, fingers adorned with jewel-encrusted rings that caught the light and the Man From Hjelmdall’s attention.
“YOU ARE JUST A HAND!?” shouted The Man From Hjelmdall in confusion.
“Nah, you pillock. I’m buried here. Help me out!”
“OH. VERY GOOD,” said The Man From Hjelmdall, reaching down and grasping the hand before giving it a stout tug. “WHAT IS A PILLOCK?!”
“It’s like a pillar but much thicker.” The hand belonged to a short, dark-haired, swarthy man who, as he slowly emerged from the corpse pile, revealed himself to be bruised and covered in blood, but still had the air of riches about him. “Thanks!” he offered brightly.
“I AM A THICK PILLAR.”
“That’s right, my dude. Now, let’s get off this dead mountain and clean up.”
“CLEAN UP?! YOU DO NOT REVEL IN THE BLOOD OF YOUR SLAIN?!”
The short man stared at The Man From Hjelmdall for a moment and, unable to make a reply, shook his head, sat down on the shining, plate-wearing back of a headless corpse and muttered, “Do what I do, buddy,” before pushing off and skidding right the way down the mountain, arriving safely at the bottom seconds later.
“DO WHAT HE DO,” repeated The Man From Hjelmdall, sitting down carefully – bones cracking beneath his enormous feet – and carefully placing his battle axe across his lap. “DO WHAT HE DO…”
The ride to the bottom was exhilarating, if only because the axe kept catching on bits of armour, limbs and so on, pulling The Man From Hjelmdall off course so that, in the end, he’d covered several times more distance than the short man had and zipped right around Corpse Mountain at least twice, lit the entire time by the god ray which insistently continued to glint off his axe and metal armour fixings..
“NORMALLY I JUST FALL DOWN THE SIDE,” observed The Man From Hjelmdall as he came to rest at the feet of the short man. “THAT WAS GOOD.”
“Every day’s a chance to learn something new, eh?” said the short man, thrusting out his hand toward The Man From Hjelmdall. “Name’s Dave.”
“DAVE? IS YOUR NAME?” The Man From Hjelmdall eyed the proffered hand suspiciously. “WHAT ARE YOU GIVING ME?”
“Er… a hand shake?” said Dave.
The Man From Hjelmdall stuck his hand forward and shook it against Dave’s hand so that they slapped against each other for a moment. The god ray decided to just give the fuck up at this point and vanished back into the clouds.
“Good enough,” said Dave. “Let’s go find some drink.”
“I ONLY DRINK MEAD,” said The Man From Hjelmdall.
“And the tears of virgins,” breathed Dave, setting off towards a small hamlet, just visible on the edge of the battle field.
“IF THEY ARE CRYING, THEY ARE NO MORE VIRGIN,” declared The Man From Hjelmdall, turning to follow Dave and then easily outpacing him.
“Fuuuuuck,” whispered Dave, trotting to keep up, “This asshole’s a gold mine!”
“THERE IS NO GOLD IN MY ASSHOLE,” said The Man From Hjelmdall, turning to see Dave falling behind. With a frown, he retraced his steps, reached a huge hand out toward the small man who stood, perhaps, as high as The Man From Hjelmdall’s epic, muscle-bound waist, and flexed his fingers.
“Hey! What are you-”
“YOUR LEGS ARE TOO SLOW. I THIRST FOR MEAD. AND WOMEN,” said The Man From Hjelmdall, picking up Dave and moving him to under one enormous arm before continuing towards the collection of houses.
“Well this is just plain undignified,” muttered Dave, wriggling his legs, but still somewhat grateful to not have to sprint to keep up any more.
Now able to move at his own pace, The Man From Hjelmdall – complete with Dave tucked under his arm – began to jog and the remaining distance to their destination melted away quickly. Suddenly they were on a muddy thoroughfare that ran through a small, sprawling hamlet. The Man From Hjelmdall now slowed his pace, concerned with dodging staring children being pulled out of his way by startled parents, barking dogs that fell silent at his approach and a handful of chickens that squawked and angrily clucked as they flapped ahead of his footsteps.
“WHERE IS YOUR TAVERN?” The Man From Hjelmdall demanded of one small child who immediately started crying. “WEAKLING.”
The child’s mother, in cloth cap and apron, collected the child into her arms before angrily gesturing to a wood and dirt building that slouched at the end of the muddy road. The Man From Hjelmdall nodded and strode off in the indicated direction, ignoring Dave’s muttered apologies to the mother as he went.
The doorway was low and the interior space not much higher: The Man From Hjelmdall – standing at more than 7 magnificent feet tall – had to stoop to enter. Once inside, the Man From Hjelmdall glanced about, spotted the bar, and made his purposeful approach, horns of his helmet dragging noisily along the underside of the ceiling.
Behind it, a filthy-faced, young-ish woman absently moved a cloth over the bar. It seemed to be an action less about establishment hygiene and more about making her bodice-clad cleavage – generous-though-aggressively-presented – wobble as much as possible. She eyed the incoming patrons with boredom.
The Man From Hjelmdall placed Dave upon the bar and cleared his throat to speak.
“Uh… sorry. What?” said the woman.
“WENCH..?” The Man From Hjelmdall was confused.
“WOMAN, I WILL SPLIT YOUR SKULL, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!”
“Let’s try a polite greeting? I mean, honestly, do you have any idea how many muscle-bound thirsty barbarians we get in here, calling me fucking ‘wench’ like it’s cool? Do you think that’s good for me? Just a bit-part in someone else’s epic story? Do you think I choose to dress like this? Do you think I’m warm enough with these bastards flopping about? I have a name, you know! I have hopes and dreams! I have purpose beyond tits and beer.”
The Man From Hjelmdall paused, eyed the woman and then tried again. “GOOD… TIME OF DAY. I DO NOT KNOW YOUR NAME, BUT IF I DID I WOULD UTTER IT POLITELY WITH THE INTENTION OF SECURING A MUG OF MEAD, AS I AM THIRSTY AND THIS IS JUST ONE OF THE MANY ROLES YOU FULFILL IN YOUR OTHERWISE MEANINGFUL LIFE. ALSO: YOU HAVE VERY NICE BOOBS AND I SHOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO-”
“Nope. That’s enough,” said the woman, holding up her hand to stop The Man From Hjelmdall from finishing that thought. “Name’s Nissa. What kind of mead you fancy, Big Guy?”
“THAT IS NOT MY NAME, BUT I SHOULD LIKE ALL OF THE MEAD.”
Nissa paused for a moment, eyed Dave who shrugged with fake helplessness. “All the mead it is. Very good. That’ll be all your money,” and then she winked at The Man From Hjelmdall.
“I DO NOT HAVE MONEY: I AM THE VICTOR AND THESE ARE MY SPOILS.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” sighed Dave, slipping one of his many bejeweled rings off a finger and dropping it loudly onto the bar. “How much he get for this?”
Nissa’s eyes grew large at the sight of the gold and gems. “All the mead…” she whispered.
The Man From Hjelmdall nodded with satisfaction before collecting Dave and, struggling to stalk off while crouching beneath the low ceiling, made his way over to a table lit by a heavily smoking, stinking tallow candle.
“Now then,” said Dave, settling onto a stool once he’d been put down again, “Let’s talk business.”
“BUSINESS? I HAVE BEEN BUSY. NOW I DRINK.”
“Yes, yes… “ said Dave dismissively, “That’s all very good. But let’s think bigger. Let’s think epic. Let’s think… Ultimate.”
“WHAT ARE THESE WORDS, SMALL MAN?” demanded The Man From Hjelmdall as Nissa rolled a wooden keg of mead over to the table.
“Listen,” said Dave, nodding to Nissa and waiting until she’d left before continuing. “I can make you famous, kid. I can make you… a star!”