Nerd In the North: 3-6 (Patreon)

III-6: The Black Struggler

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Greg’s boots pounded against the forest floor, snow crunching underfoot and branches clawing at his clothes like desperate hands, but he barely noticed. His eyes tracked the churned-up snow, the broken branches, the faint traces of hoofprints leading deeper into the woods.

There’s a camp out here. I know it. The thought burned in his mind, fueled by the smoke he’d seen earlier, curling up against the grey sky like a goddamn signal flare. They don’t get away. Not this time.

He skidded to a halt as the forest suddenly opened up into a clearing, his momentum carrying him a step too far. His boots dug into the wet earth, and he froze, blue eyes going wide as his gaze locked onto the scene before him.

“Holy…” the word slipped out, barely audible.

It was a slaughterhouse.

Or more like the forest had thrown up. Snow melted into red-streaked mud, churned into a sloppy mess of dirt, blood, and whatever used to be people.

How? Greg’s eyes darted to the campfire still smoldering, to the dense blood scattered everywhere. The red stains smeared across the clearing, painting the snow, the mud, even the trees at the edges. …the hell?

He took a slow step forward, and winced as the stench punched him in the face—blood, rot, and burned meat. Great. Steam still rose from the corpses, blood stark against the snow.

The violence here wasn’t old.

It was fresh.

A body—or half of one—rested against a tree. The top half. 

The guy’s face was stuck in a scream Greg didn’t want to look at for long—mouth open, eyes bulging, like he’d seen hell before it ripped him apart. He recognized him, though. This was the guy who was running first.

Was being the operative word.

His bottom half? 

Gone. 

Just gone. 

His guts trailed out onto the ground in fat, glistening ropes, the ends jagged and frayed like they’d been torn apart by something massive. Not a sword. No way that’s clean enough for a blade.

Greg clicked his tongue, aware that the him of four months ago would have fainted, but he swallowed hard and kept moving. 

Nearby, a sword was buried in the mud, the hilt snapped clean in two. Another corpse lay sprawled out a few feet away, split down the middle from skull to balls, both halves of his body splayed out in opposite directions. Jesus, that’s… efficient.

His eyes landed on another body—or, more accurately, what was left of it. No head, just a jagged stump of a neck, the blood was still dribbling out, sluggish like it hadn’t realized the guy was dead yet.

Yep, efficient work.

Fucked the hell up, but efficient.

Whoever did this wasn’t swinging for points—they were splitting logs. People-shaped logs. He turned to glance at some trees at the edge of the clearing that stood half-broken, their trunks splintered and cracked halfway through. And also log-shaped logs.

Greg’s gaze flicked to a discarded shield nearby, no banner or sigil across its surface. The thing was dented to all hell, caved in like someone had taken a hammer to it.

No—a fucking boulder.

“Jesus,” he whispered again in the silence.

Then his gaze dropped lower, to the ground as he raised an eyebrow.

Deep gouges marred the earth, long and uneven, like someone had dragged a sword the size of a horse through it.

His breath hitched as his eyes found what had once been horses—or maybe it was just one horse, though it was impossible to tell now. What was left of it looked like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder. Twice.

The head of one lay a few feet away, eyes frozen wide in terror, the tongue lolling grotesquely from its mouth.

Greg’s eyebrows rose higher than he thought they could. What the hell did this? Is there another dragon other than Ash around?

He wasn’t angry they were dead but he was more than a little nettled that he had no more leads to find the rest of the men, and wherever they were now. My sword…

The only option was to take it right back from the guy who sent them in the first place. Not that I wasn’t gonna find the Bolton dickhead anyway and stick it right through him.

That thought in mind, Greg stepped further into the clearing, the squelch of mud and blood underfoot making him grimace as he looked around. “Fuck me running.”

A crow flapped down from a branch above, landing lightly in the snow. It cocked its head, black eyes glittering as it pecked at a severed finger lying nearby. Another perched atop a ribcage spread wide, pecking greedily at the frozen organs inside.

The crows weren’t shy about their feast. Greg tried not to focus on the sound of their beaks hitting bone, but it was hard to block out.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the clearing for any sign of what—or who—had done this. It wasn’t hard to imagine something massive, something inhuman, tearing through the Bolton men with zero hesitation. Hell, based on the mess, it almost looked like it had enjoyed itself. A chill crept up Greg’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold. I wouldn’t wanna fight whoever did this, he thought grimly.

A shadow fell over him.

Greg’s hand twitched, magic energy buzzing at his fingertips as his head jerked up. Something big. Something wrong. He spun in place. Fire? No, force? Maybe just—

He stopped cold.

Standing in front of him, towering over him like a goddamn nightmare come to life, was a man. A giant of a man, nearly six and a half feet tall, clad in black armor that looked like it had seen every war in existence and then some.

The armor wasn’t pretty—no ornate designs or shiny metal here. It was rough, practical, scarred from battles that Greg could only guess at. Strapped to the man’s back was a sword so massive that Greg’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip just looking at it. Oh, there’s the sword the size of a horse.

It wasn’t just big—it was absurd, wider than Greg’s entire body and nearly as tall as the man himself. Compensating much? Although, judging by the guy’s size, probably not. Either way, the thing on his back looked like it belonged in a Final Fantasy game, not real life.

Greg’s eyes darted from the sword to the man’s face.

He was younger than Greg expected, maybe in his early twenties, but his eyes—dark and sharp—looked like they belonged to someone much older. They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much, lived through too much.

Greg found himself blinking again as he stared back at the sword. How strong would he have to be…? I mean, I can lift a guy pretty easy… and I could probably have lifted that boar without the gold bands if I really tried.

Despite that, he couldn’t shake the idea the sword alone would probably squash him flat. It just looked unnaturally heavy, for something that size.

Greg shook it off, narrowing his eyes. Questions for later.

“You gonna say something, or just stand there looming?” Greg’s voice came out sharp, wary, like a knife that wasn’t sure if it needed to cut yet. His hand was still halfway raised, magic ready to go if things got messy. “What’s your name?”

The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. If it wasn’t enough that this guy looked like he’d walked off the set of a fantasy-action flick, sword and all, he sounded so cool that it was unreal.

Honestly, Greg half-expected him to say something ridiculous like ‘prepare to die.’

Instead, he just said, “Guts.”

Shit… that’s cool. Greg raised an eyebrow, trying to hide how much he wanted to grin. Sick name, honestly.

He glanced back at the clearing, at the bodies strewn across the ground like broken dolls. “You did this?” he asked, his tone more curious than accusatory.

Guts’ expression didn’t change. 

He just shrugged, his voice flat as he said, “What’s it look like?”

Fair. Greg bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. It had been a dumb question, really. He eyed Guts again, taking in the sheer size of the guy, the black armor that somehow looked more intimidating up close, and that ridiculous sword he carried like it weighed nothing. I was beginning to wonder where the other Adventurers in this place were but… well, guess I found one.

Greg tilted his head, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Why?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost cautious.

Guts didn’t hesitate. “They came at me,” he said, like it was obvious. Then, after a pause: “And I had time.”

Definitely an A-Class Adventurer. Greg nodded slowly, frowning as he looked back at the carnage. “Mmm.” He kicked a chunk of something unidentifiable out of his way. “Did me a favor then. I was gonna do the same.”

“So you owe me one, then,” Guts said, his voice rough but casual, like he was discussing the weather and not standing in a forest full of butchered corpses.

Greg blinked, his eyebrow lifting. “...What do you want?”

The way Guts tilted his head, just slightly, made it clear he took the question more seriously than he took killing people at least. “Not sure yet,” he said, his tone carrying that strange weight again, like the words weren’t the whole story. The guy’s dark eyes narrowed, sharp like he was piecing together a shitty jigsaw puzzle but with half the pieces already missing. “But I feel like I know you.”

The words really shouldn’t have meant anything, but they crawled under Greg’s skin and stuck there as the guy looked at him like he was trying to remember a bad dream. Greg couldn’t help but feel like he knew the guy from a dream too, his instincts humming with recognition as his gaze lingered on Guts. Do I know you?

"...Same," Greg admitted, quieter now, the word barely audible.

He glanced at Guts’ face again, searching for something he couldn’t name, but there was nothing there to explain the feeling. Just that same rough-edged smirk, like Guts was daring him to figure it out.

They stood there in silence for a beat, the air between them thick with something unspoken. The sound of the forest crept in around them—wind rustling the trees, the distant caws of crows still feasting on what was left of the Bolton men.

Note to self: don’t die somewhere with birds. They don’t wait. Vultures are lazy. Crows, though? Proactive little bastards. Greg shifted his weight, half expecting one of the crows to ask for leftovers. He was pretty sure they were smart enough to talk.

“Mind if I follow you?” Guts asked, his tone nonchalant but his eyes sharp as ever. “Feels like I need some companions.”

Greg barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “I’m gonna be killing a lot of people,” he said bluntly, straightening up. “A lot of bad people,” he clarified, like it mattered.

Guts snorted. “Bad people, huh? That’s a nice touch.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Might have to go kill a fucked up lord and fight his whole army to get to him.” He offered the guy another chance to go his own way. Sure, he seemed useful. But he also looked like the kind of guy who’d kill you just to time how long it took you to die.

The man’s grin widened, and for a second, it wasn’t just a smirk—it was sharp, almost manic, a predator’s grin that matched the glint in his eyes. “is that supposed to scare me off? because it’s working about as well as they did.” he asked, voice low and edged with something eager.

Greg stared at him, unsure whether to take that as a joke or a threat.

This guy—this massive, armored, sword-toting guy—was grinning at the idea of running headfirst into more blood and chaos. And somehow, greg didn’t hate it. 

In fact, it was kind of… comforting? Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

Greg exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine,” he muttered, brushing snow off his pants like Guts wasn’t even there. “But don’t slow me down.”

“deal,” Guts said, his grin softening into something almost genuine. almost.

Greg glanced back at the towering, sword-toting maniac. Sure, he seemed useful—until he decided to chop greg in half, too. But hey, better to have the guy with the giant sword on your side, right? 

He knew that Guts felt different, though. The weird connection was one thing, but the guy didn’t even bother to pretend to suck up to him. He wasn’t trying to be anything other than a giant menace and honestly… real.Greg turned with a smirk, heading back into the dense forest without a second glance. guts fell in behind him,his footfalls heavy enough to remind greg exactly who had the Big Fucking Sword. They didn’t say anything as they made their way through the trees.

As they got closer to the village, the faint murmurs of the townsfolk reached his ears, growing louder with each step. Greg’s shoulders stiffened as he remembered the way they’d stared at him earlier.

He pushed through the treeline, his boots crunching against the snow as the village came into view. The whispers rippled through the crowd as soon as they spotted him, their voices hushed but frantic.

“It’s ‘im,” someone muttered, their tone half-reverent, half-terrified.

The villagers continued to whisper, not subtle about it. Greg caught words like ‘giant’ and ‘m’lord’ and ‘demon.’ Great. Just what he needed—more stares, and nothing actually useful.

Greg didn’t stop, didn’t acknowledge them. 

His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he walked through the village, the crowd parting nervously around him. He could feel stares burning into his back, could hear the way Their whispers grew more frantic the farther he went. Fucking fantastic. Awe and fear, my two least favorite flavors of attention.

Behind him, Guts didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. 

If anything, he looked almost amused, his lips twitching in that same faint smirk as his eyes flicked lazily over the villagers. Greg glanced over his shoulder and caught Guts chuckling, the guy shrugging like this was all a joke.

Greg shook his head. “Straight line. don’t trip over your giant sword.”

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The northern edge of the Umber March, the lands Last Hearth claimed its own, had forests both dense and shadowed. It was here a group of woodcutters huddled in the flickering light of a campfire. The day’s work left their hands blistered and backs numb with ache, but all that weariness did little to silence the normal mutterings.

“Did ye ‘ear?” a boy asked, his voice cracking with the excitement of gossip. He was young, barely three and ten, with a mop of unkempt hair and the bright eyes of someone who still believed in tales. “Lord Veder’s come south. They sayin’ he’s done in two score Bolton men, left t’woods runnin’ wi’ blood.”

An older man of at least four winters, thick-armed and thicker-browed, let out a grunt as he pulled long from his flask. “Aye, stories, ye telling stories passed by bards and mummers fer fool and bairns,” he muttered, voice rough. “Nowt but tales, ye daft little bugger.” 

After a moment of silence as the boy’s face fell, the man cracked a hard smile across the fire and continued. “Were’nt not Bolton men. T’was all a band of simple bandits. ‘Sides, last i heard, he was at Thornwell, takin’ ‘eads there too.”

“Thornwell were real enough,” said another, a wiry man with a thick scar running from temple to jjaw. “Saw smoke meself when I passed by t’ridge. Lord there’s fled, hasn’t he? Off t’Essos, they say. Fled ‘cause o’ Veder.”

“He’s no lord,” the old man grumbled, his voice thick with disdain. “Just some mad wee bastard wi’ fire in his hands an’ giant’s blood in ‘is veins.”

“Then why’re there songs ‘bout him?” the boy shot back, his tone sharp with defiance. “Songs ‘bout t’flayed men he burned, villages he saved.”

“’Cause folk like their heroes,” the older man said, spitting into the snow. “Doesn’t matter if they’re killers, does it?”

The scarred man leaned forward, his voice dropping low like he was sharing a secret. “Killer or no, they’re sayin’ he’s comin’ through Umber lands next. An’ not just him—there’s a man wi’ him now. Big one. Sword the size of a bloody cart, they say. Traders from Karhold swear they seen ‘em.”

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a traveling merchant made his way into a small roadside inn after trudging through the snow, his covered cart outside laden with pelts and smoked meats. he sat by the hearth, warming his hands as a few locals nursed their drinks and spoke, uncaring to listening ears.

“veder’s not comin’ to karhold, is he?” a woman with gray in her hair asked, voice tight and reedy. she clutched a shawl around her shoulders, beady red-rimmed eyes darting nervously towards a man sitting across from her, nearest the hearth.

“Not yet,” he replied to her with a slight lift of his bearded chin, eyes not leaving the fire. He spoke slowly, voice raspy with former sickness and the weariness of age. “But ‘e’s close enough. They be sayin’ ‘e passed through Bolton lands a days back. Burnt out one o’ their garrisons. Left nowt but ash an’ bones, so they say.”

“They be sayin’ a lot,” grumbled another grizzled man nursing a cup of ale. His tone was rough, words clipped. “Last I ‘eard, ‘e’s some kind o’ witch or dark lord. Makes fire wi’ his hands, calls storms, summons the dead like an Other t’rip apart the Bolton riders.”

“It’s not storms or the dead, lad’s no Other or nowt,” the merchant finally spoke up, shaking his head distastefully. “It’s ‘all ‘iim. I saw the trees meself, splintered t’kindlin’ like a giant’d walked through. An’ the bear…” He trailed off, voice dropping low. “They say it’s not natural. Eyes like fire, wings o’ a dragon.”

The grizzled man spat into the fire, a dry hiss punctuating his words. “Don’t need witches an’ monsters. We’ve enough trouble wi’ snow an’ wolves.”

“Aye, but it’s not wolves what flay folk alive,” the woman muttered, her voice going low and oddly quiet as she stared into the flames like the other man. “Maybe lad’s like Veder’s what the Dread Lands need, ‘stead of a Bolton.”

The innkeeper, a broad man with a white beard nearly as thick as the rest of him, shook his head slow as he wiped a mug. “Maybe. Or maybe he’ll bring the flayed men t’our door, lookin’ fer vengeance. Either way, trouble’s comin’.”

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In a village not far removed from the shadow of dreadfort’s looming towers, fear was palpable as it always was. The bolton banners hung above the gatehouse, proud as ever, their flayed man a grim reminder of who ruled here. yet, even in these lands, the name Veder had begun to spread, whispered in corners where the guards’ ears couldn’t reach.

at a smithy near the village square, a blacksmith hammered at a blade as his apprentice spoke in hushed tones.“They say he’s killed a hundred now,” the boy muttered aloud, face turned toward his teacher. “Soldiers, lords, all o’ them. Burned the camps clean, they say.”

“They say plenty, fool, an’ most o’ it’s shite,” the blacksmith shot back. The man didn’t look up from his work, hammer ringing out a steady rhythm. “An’ what about Lord Bolton, eh? Ye think he’ll sit by while some fire-chuckin’ bastard runs amok?”

“He’s afraid,” the apprentice said quickly, leaning closer. “Heard it from a trader just yestermorn. They’re sendin’ riders all ways—north, south, east, an’ west—tryin’ t’track him. Said Lord Bolton’s shakin’ wi’ his bastard gone.”

“hmph,” the blacksmith grunted. “If they catch him, they’ll make a song o’ his flayin’. ‘Lord Veder, the skinless,’ eh? That’s a tune fer the ages.’”

the apprentice shivered. “Or maybe… they’ll end up in one o’ his.”

outside, a traveler passed through the village, his cloak pulled tight against the cold. the whispers reached his ears, too, of a man with fire in his hands, a beast at his side, and vengeance in his heart.

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Thornwell was a tale for the ages, a lord fleeing the North after his fellows had reported his devious intentions to the young Lord Stark, even as viler stories welled up once a young hero paid a visit to the lordless town—songs sung in low, reverent tones by firesides, of smallfolk hunting and slavery and rape of wives in front of their husbands and sword swallowing, to say the least. 

Now, especially, with the news of men of seemingly no banner — though rumors pointed towards the flayed man of the East — butchered to the last, the legend grew sharper, darker, and harder to dismiss.

“He killed ‘em all,” one merchant muttered, his voice low as he hunched close to the fire in a small hamlet near White Harbor. “Not just t’soldiers, neither—beasts they rode in on an’ all. Tore through ‘em like a storm. Snow were red fer days, so they reckon.”

“Aye, weren’t just killin’, though, were it?” added another, an older man with a weathered face and a crooked nose. “Folk said he burned ‘em alive, called fire straight from ‘is hands. Like somethin’ o’ the Red Priest’s tales.”

A woman listening nearby clutched her shawl tighter, her face pale. “Fire? Like dragons, aye? T’ones from owd stories?”

The first merchant scoffed, the action turning to a rough cough for a few seconds before he managed to catch his breath. “More like a demon, if yer ask me. Traders said t’trees were split clean in two, like he swung some blade too big fer mortal hands. An’ that bear o’ his… eyes glowin’, smoke pourin’ out its maw. Ain’t natural, tha’.”

A man sitting apart from the group, his cloak patched and tattered, shifted uneasily. “Thornwell weren’t enough fer ‘im, then? What’s he after now, eh?”

“Justice,” the old man said, though his tone was uncertain. “Or so they sing. Whose justice, though? That’s summat I can’t tell ye. Call ‘im a lord, but I’ve not seen a castle wi’ his name on it.”

The woman shook her head. “Snowthorne’s, why not? Tha’ bastard vanished, didn’t he? Fled across t’Narrow Sea, if t’tales are true. Maybe this Veder’s why. Wants ‘is castle.”

Another man, younger and brash as his red hair, snorted loud. “Snowthorne were a bastard, aye. Hunted his own folk, he did. If Veder put an end t’him, I’ll raise a mug t’that,” the man punctuated his words by doing exactly that.

“Ye’d raise a mug t’aught, Thom,” the old man grumbled. “But aye, there’s truth there. Still, strange sort o’ justice, leavin’ towns in ashes an’ folk in bits, innit?”

“Better ashes than chains, though,” the woman added quietly, though her hands trembled as she spoke. “Folk like Snowthorne an’ t’Boltons made it so’s we need folk like Veder in t’first place, didn’t they?”

the group fell silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound as each considered her words.

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