On occasion, warriors are hurt badly enough to keep them from fighting, but not badly enough to kill them. Given the temperament of the average Norweigan, this is an understandably rare occurrence, as the vast majority of wounded Norweigans tend to glance at their crippling injuries, say something along the lines of “tis but a scratch”, and resume shooting, stabbing, and/or headbutting the nearest troll until one of the two expires.
Nonetheless, a small number of these debilitated veterans exists. Many of them find solace in civilian life, while others throw themselves into daring tasks despite their injuries (the most notable of which was Trask “Stumpy” Andersen, who, despite lacking three and a half of his four limbs, managed to board, commandeer, and sail a fishing skiff singlehandedly into a leviathan pod, ramming the nearest creature while cackling and flinging Molotov cocktails in all directions).
It is widely conjectured the latter group consists simply of the ones who have been driven insane by boredom.
On this particular day, it was also widely conjectured that No-Hands and One-Eye had joined this group.
The pair were, as nicknames go, somewhat badly named. For one, No-Hands actually had hands. They just so happened to be made of wood, steel, and bronze. One-Eye, in fact, was completely blind in his remaining eye. He hadn’t been originally, but there had been an incident involving a particularly rowdy wedding, a champagne bottle, and a washing machine.
This pair was, at this particular moment in time, waiting on the outskirts of one of the less dangerous forests in Norway (which meant you only had a one in two chance of being eaten, rather than five in six), and staring at a box.
The box in question was shaking visibly, and yelling. The yelling was not particularly complimentary, being mostly directed at the box itself, and a variety of unappealing attributes the box had.
“Never heard that one,” No-Hands said after a particularly inventive combination of swearwords.
“Yup,” One-Eye said.
“How much longer?” No-Hands asked.
“Not much,” One-Eye answered.
As if on cue, the top of the box finally yields to the occupant’s struggles, bursting open with a crack, revealing Sigrun Eide.
Sigrun Eide, teenage daughter of General Eide.
Sigrun Eide, who, when informed her babysitter (a man who resembled a small, ambulatory mountain) was secretly a troll, built a pit trap sufficient to both fool and contain said babysitter until authorities arrived. She was eight at the time, and had been disappointed that the babysitter was not, in fact, a troll.
Sigrun Eide, who these two particular unfortunates had been hired to take into this particular forest, so she could kill her first troll.
The girl- not a woman, until this was done- stretched, and said something that would cause most of Swedish or Icelandic high society to faint into their teacups before standing and brushing off the remains of the crate. “So you two are the guys who’re supposed to find me a troll to kill?” she asks- shouts, really. The two nod slowly, and Sigrun pumps her fist enthusiastically into the air. “Sweet!” Then she frowns. “Why don’t you guys have any guns?” she asks. “I mean, aren’t they needed?”
No-Hands shakes his head. “Not allowed. Traditional reasons,” he explains. Sigrun’s expression sours. “What happens if a troll or a giant shows up and you’re not prepared for it?” she asks angrily.
No-Hands doesn’t say a word, just swings his wood and iron fist into the nearest tree. The tree in question, a relatively young oak, buckles around the prosthetic, splintering easily. No-Hands pulls the artificial limb free easily. One-Eye, meanwhile, has drawn a sword out of his cane, holding it at the ready.
Sigrun gulps, then nods.
“What about me, though?” she asks.
No-Hands prods One-Eye, and the blind man puts his cane back together before pulling out a large knife with deceptive ease. He flips it and hands it hilt-first to Sigrun, who takes it with a grin.
“Awesome. Let’s go kill something,” she says.
-------------------------------
It takes them a very short time to find a troll, No-Hands reflects numbly, flying through the air. A very, very short time, he repeats, slamming into a tree trunk.
He was never going near Sigrun Eide again, he pledges, flopping face-first into the forest floor.
The troll in question roars loudly, before suddenly squealing and whimpering. Sigrun’s head pops into No-Hands field of vision. “Well,” she says happily. “That went wonderfully!”
No-Hands groans, then mutters something he’d heard from Sigrun when she was in the crate.
Honestly, he wished she’d go back into it.
Actions
