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OoC: Since me and Wyborn ended up arguing like infants on the subject of past-battles, and since I plan to kill the younger Morris in an adjacent topic, we resolved to pit the BF legend against my own sibling. They have clashed in the past, but not in single-combat (much to Wyborn's, ah, chagrin ), and resulting in a... stalemate, we'll say. This will be remedied.

At Wyborn's bequest, the battlefield shall be a frozen, shifting nordic ocean of colliding ice-blocks so massive in dimension they could easily be apartment complexes of cut ice or even small houses. Beneath the frigid water an unfathomaeable being Cyclopean and chtonic lies dormant and is best not to be pondered. Post entrances at your discretion.

MacInnis versus Morris.

Make me proud, baby brother. Or you're out of the family. =P

w00f

The timbers whined and shrieked as the sea pulled the bindings apart. The muscular figure dawned on the silhouette of the dragon ship. He could be seen, the mastadonic cords threaded around his arms as he clenched them together with all his strength, violently holding what was left of the long boat intact. The wind brutally crashed in between the towering ice blocks, Faldr shrugging off the onslaught of the sea. Njōrðr wouldn’t stop him, none of the gods would. He navigated the broken vessel through the chaotic corridors of ice and the raging tidal sea. The ocean froze to his beard and his hair. The tresses and locks clumped in chunks of ice, yet his stared pierced on through his matted hair. His furs clotted in pellets of ice over sheets of steel which glistened as they shaped his massive form. The gargantuan Viking stood in defiance of the ocean, in defiance of Valhalla. The warlord demanded satisfaction. The gods had cursed his seed. His beloved wife and child, the birth still, and her life lost in labor. And he would have it here. He had been hunting the gods for two years. Finding them and slaying them in the winter snow. It was here that his combat would find Freyja. He hunted her into the incarnate chaos of the ocean… the world’s own edge.

OoC: For all your bravado, Cameron, you make little in terms of battle.