Undulating, the white dense turbulence slowly stretches up and towards different sides, the end of the convection of gases. As if the fluff white gas was the covers of a bed and some human-like creature began stretching limbs from under the swirling condensation, like a slow avalanche of harmless intangibility. Long masses of vapor join up so close together the whiteness sculpts a terrain surface, a peaceful image of flat relief, so much so the scenery reminds an observant eye of a desert but made of white clouds, timid waves of moving fluff spreading under infinite blue. Impossibly enough, a huge black marble castle is built and stands strong in the middle of this cloud desert. Black marble walls and, chiseled all over them, sculptures: imagery, animals, weapons, among other things. These outside walls run tall around a wide area, seeming made from one single block of huge marble, however, when the eye is close enough it is possible to notice the wall is built with giant marble blocks that fit into each other. The reason for that kind of design becomes clear when the clouds reshape the relief this structure was raised over, rising or diving down, bringing a piece of the wall along, so the wall block lowers down and along with it the next one until the whole wall changes shape. Blocks of the wall the size of a tower, fitting into each other through some wondrous architecture, slide up and down to the will of the clouds, walls that could be a challenge even for a jotun to climb. The castle walls shape the times before itself, footprints of giant beings, giant eyes, giant hands, imagery sculpted into the black stone, then the sun is showcased in several places inside golden circles, with different engraving designs representing the distant light spot. The moon appears as well, but as a silver, scarier, image. The entire outside wall has all sorts of designs that depict the origin of the castle itself, addressing the gods that dwell inside and how those came to be. Big walls around the area where the castle stands draw the limits of the inner area where the bailey, the kitchen, storehouse, barracks, and the keep are. The keep stands taller than the bailey, on a motte, and the access climb to the motte is composed of clouds that shift from pure white to blinking black. Lightning flashes on several spots of the sudden black gaseous surface, and even though sparks of pure electric discharge are rarely seen, they are constantly heard down into the giant white fluff landscape. Silence is occasional, sounds of the growling inside of the titanic cloud fill the void of sounds and bother any visitors who didn’t grow accustomed to the noise; that and the wind. It is so high up that the currents are wild and strong, almost carrying whatever is light enough to take with. The intense feeling of the wind overwhelms the skin, the ears, the breathing. Celeste emptiness, a white landscape floats despite being immersed in such a chaotic air gust, bringing to mind the impossible idea it could all crumble down into the far below ground. Depending on where the wind would take a pair of ears, new sounds would present themselves. Movement and voices, the swift air gust of a strike of violence missing its target, the muffled sound of a blocked strike followed by a fleeing jump. The movement and the fight take place in a specific place since the sounds keep to the same places, repeating, almost predictable. Close by another noise is clear, and a noise that makes sense when the sound of a fight is clear. Metal being hit, something being forged, built, the sound of roaring hot embers, then the hammer again. The feeling of time becomes trapped inside the constant hit of a hammer that can be heard from the second story, smoke out the chimney, a white thin flag with golden detail on the edges waves just beside the smoke. A modest building crafted with the same black marble, yet with more care and detail since it seems people would see it more often. The outside walls of the barracks carry nature carvings, mixing trees, bodies of water, clouds, wind, flora, and fauna in ingenious ways, yet the real attention spark lied on the names carved here and there, names of warriors. Inside the barracks also lie armor and weapons owned by warriors of the alfar clan, with only the war markings on their arsenal to tell any tale about them. In front of the barracks, there is a circle drawn by a short wall where warriors would spar, and where two warriors do. One is a male, the other is a female, they circle around each other with calm breathing, their feet keep their bodies on a grounded stance while moving to one side. The male is an alf, his auburn short hair barely moves in the constant wind gust that blows everywhere, his gray rugged skin would become smooth whenever sunlight would find him, as well as his yellow iris would begin to glow golden. This 178 cm (5,83 ft) tall alf wears a two-color wool houppelande, one half is light blue and the other half dark green, light grey leather pants, and brown leather boots. The alf joins his hands and his body begins to vibrate, then he jumps backward, and his clothing stays behind him. Before he is out of reach of his garments he reaches for something in his pants, on the pocket, a deltahedron, he lands naked, then he drops the geometrical piece and steps on it. Metal spreads on the floor, folding against the male’s foot, leg, waist, torso, arms, head, with the final pieces folding over the remaining leg. The alf who was just a moment ago covered in hindering heavy clothing now wears light armor fitted into his figure, his yellow eyes glow as he stares back at his opponent. The female moves around in a frantic manner, making noises and staring with intensity, which keeps the male in check, expecting the first move from her. Lavender eyes are locked in with his yellow ones, his ears catch her whispered screams, strong exhaling, whistling in two tones, loud tongue clicks. She crouches and lifts bits of cloud jumping away the next second. She scratches her own clothing lightly, she starts trilling with a quiet vibration and it gradually rises in volume until she screams, all of that while still stirring bits of cloud up. Her nails grow out sharp and long, and would complete the menacing image the hand creates, positioned like a claw, wasn’t for the white-laced fingerless long gloves this female wears. Also, golden rings on her fingers contradict the picture she tries to paint of herself with this war dance, same as her white silk poncho covering the torso and hips, however, her white slit ripped skinny jeans and her leather string sandals bring out a war vibe at least. Her choice for wearing white seems less like a way of disguising herself in the scenery and more like a way to bring attention to her black hair, shiny and styled in a messy middle-parted bob with bangs. The next place one would look at is the bushy s-shaped eyebrows, then, of course, the eyes, and then the big pointy nose shooting out of her face. Her mouth barely moves, only for smiling as she interacts with those around her, and her smile shows a peculiar smile. Her superior front teeth are normal size and all the other teeth are smaller ones, giving her a bit of a triangular, quirky smile. A small body (1,47 m / 4,82 ft) with thick muscles, well-defined, pretty low body fat, moves smoothly around her opponent. This female seems visibly grateful to be in combat, taking the most time possible to warm the body up, then mess up with the opponent until intent is clear, and then there is an opening for blood to flow. Usually, there would be a high tint bronze Veksø helmet with swan feather trims going along between the horns resting on her head, but that would be too much of an advantage in any fight, and this one is a treat because is not combat for service but for training, for fun. Fighting this male is a task, one she had been given a long time ago and one that still doesn’t feel complete. This female is an honorary valkyrie, given power over an army of dead warriors. She is Höd Herjason [pronounced “Harry-a-son”], the half-blind daughter of Ódinn, the slayer of Baldur, the Barrow, master of all knowledge, the valkyrie of ghosts, general of Alfheim, the goddess of weapons. Tired of the theatrics, the alf lunges at his teacher, wishing all this time fighting would make something grow inside him, something that would tell him what to do, just like that. What she does, that is what he wants to be able to do. The way this female moves, the way her eyes seem to read his movements, the way her feet predict his feet. Both fight with a close-quarters combat style, the male has his arms and legs close together, moving with a sit-down stance, his hands are open to grab and immobilize while his elbows and knees are ready to strike. Höd doesn’t have a stance, she walks around with her arms relaxed like she was taking a stroll. It infuriates her opponent, the way he is unable to bring a serious fight out of this female, that is the mountain he climbs ever since he was a child. The top of this mountain doesn’t seem visible, it seems the mountain still has coldness and fear to spare. Time should have made his objective clear, a strategy, but it still seems like a mystery. Covered in full metallic body armor the alf jumps aiming his knee to the aesir’s head, she leans back and scratches his leg with her nails, a scream, blood. “You didn’t pay attention.”, she says as she shows him her nails, long, shiny, and covered in runes. The alf rises in a flash, returns to his fighting stance, then the white glow of his skin gets brighter on the place he was cut, he takes a deep breath. “And you didn’t try to amputate my leg.”, he runs towards her as she smiles. A huge rock flies between them which stops their fight, and as the rock floats back from where it came from the eyes of the fighters follow it. “The final banquet is ready, you two. Let’s get you cleaned up and head to the Keep.”. An old male with yellow eyes exchanges looks with both then turns around and leaves, his hands are to his back, several rocks surround him, orbiting around him. “I have to help Dellingr. You go along.”, Höd looks at her apprentice, they smile at each other. The alf’s clothes float in his direction, he joins his hands making some kind of symbol with his fingers, and the clothes pass through him. Now dressed, he grabs the deltahedron and places it inside his pocket. Out of the barracks, the two alf walk, but the old male seems less like an alf even though he has yellow eyes. A long and well-kept white mustache usually calls the eye before anything else, then the pretty beard and pretty hair, soft even to the eyes. His clothes shine, with many layers of a similar fabric, the first layer tight to the body, showing a body that can fight but enjoys life a bit more, a second layer with fabric that connects the torso to each arm, going under the arms, then a second fabric goes around the waist on the back, covering the thighs. The third layer with a cape covering the other layers, with tips at the end that lift up slightly and seem to point to floating objects in the air, as if there were lines coming out of the fabric and wrapped around the objects. Huge chunks of rock, sand-colored, with straight sides that have staves carved deep into the spinning slabs that float and follow this old man around. He wears pointy boots with a similar hue to the clothes, a hue that is not clear, it feels like the color changes between light blue and light green. His eyes are yellow however his skin is not gray, neither is the skin tissue with a ruggedness like the one on an alf, it seems to be mansir skin. Wildly, his skin seems to not be stable, to the eye, it looks wobbly and cristal-like. His face is visible and looks normal until he moves any part of it to talk, to look to one side, then it jiggles, like it was a liquid. This is one of the magicians trained by Od in his travels, one of the many who would aid kings and valkyries in the wars of old. But then one day he sat beside two goblins by a lake and drank the soup they were cooking when they were not looking. The soup was cursed with the binding of a monster that lived in the lake, to be controlled by whoever drank the solution. A creature of darkness crafted from the chaos of the presence of mansir, called Storsjöodjuret. For several years this magician ran rogue from his original design, wreaking havoc until a more powerful magician had managed to bind him to a runestone raised by the lake. There the wizard stood until the day his queen would grant him a power that allowed him to break free and provoke his hunger for revenge even further. This wizard is Østman, the mansir bound by a curse to the monster Storsjöodjuret, general of Svartalfheim, völva, Erilaz, stavemaster, merkstave master, master of hamr, sworn enemy of the valkyrie of conjury, the count of Jämtland. Lavender eyes follow the pair, the wizard and the apprentice, from inside the barracks, as they walk to the Keep, hammer hits louder now. “Mmm.”, Höd approaches the old male (1,22 m / 4 ft) as he examines the piece he works on. He throws it on the floor and points his hand at it, the object unfolds itself to a shape that resembles a humanoid, then it tries to move and it stops like it is jammed on the limbs. “Your job is not done yet, Kappi.”, his cheekbones stand out from his bearded face, his hair is long and white, he wears a cream silk shirt, white cotton shorts, and straw sandals. He puts the hard leather gloves he was wearing on the anvil and heads to a silver bowl holding water to wash his face. His blue eyes are peaceful, he smiles and nods repeatedly as he looks at Höd. “I will get you the weapon. I’ve made up my mind.”, then upon hearing that the aesir kneels and bows her head. This nidavell is Dellingr, the first king of Alfheim, the builder of castles with such amazing architecture and defensive design it allowed soldiers to see the next day during a hard battle, so he earned the nickname “the Dawn”; the little one who traveled across all realms and tried to live as free folk, a thing he is not, so he brought curses upon his family and clan. “The crown tells me he walks, he is here. And he has company. Will he come to aid us, you think?”, the blue eyes of the nidavell examine the huge cube on the floor, “No. When you are part of the prophecy it takes over your mind. Locating the Serpent will be his main goal today, I bet.”. The Dawn’s eyes flash with excitement then he looks at the aesir with a big smile, “You bet? How much? heh heh heh”, Höd smiles and moves her head from one side to the other, “The nidavell people is amusing.”. When she shoots her glance out the window her apprentice is by the door of the Keep, a high double door but not very wide with a multifoil arch, “She has returned. There are loads to do. The ring, the deal for the ring. I have to make sure we do our part.”, the magician stares at nothing while he says that, even though it seems he speaks to the alf beside him it also seems like he speaks with himself. After the pair passes the double door the mansir old man turns to a side and walks into a corridor to one side, and directly straight through the first room after the door there is a second door that leads into the main hall where the banquet is served. A huge golden skull floats from the main hall and hovers in front of the alf, it is upside down, the lower jaw is missing, the hole under the skull (foramen magnum) has dirt inside it, and coming out of the dirt, a closed flower. When the yellow-eyed male leans closer to the flower, it opens, and he inhales the haze it emerges from the stem. “Forseti, come sit!”, the alf looks at the source of the voice, the flower closes then this male is captured by several thoughts. This alf is Forseti Maregast, Erilaz, master of hudr, future king of Alfheim, the god of justice, and injustice. Inside the main hall, on the wall right as you go in, the inside wall where the entrance door is, there is an iconostasis showing the structure of the alfar. At the top, sculpted in gold and silver, the sun and the moon, the forces that command the curse that fell under the alfar. Below those two lies the first couple, the ones responsible for the curse, the two who had children without the permission of the rulers, a choice which brought a decision on the Thing of Gods: Dellingr, and Jord. The worm of Ymir should never live like free folk, according to the old laws, neither should a female jotun have children with a male that is not from Asgard and, even worse, survive childbirth, so that act was the ultimate defiance to the aesir. For that act, Dellingr, his family, and all his descendants were banned from the other realms, condemned to live as slaves if ever found even amongst their own folk, their own clan. Dellingr together with his son was chained up, his son was cared for by Jord until Alfödr decided to have his first son, choosing the giantess to be conquered for that goal. Several years passed with Dellingr raising his son in captivity until the young lad was of age to marry, and following his father’s footsteps, he married a giantess who accepted losing her freedom for that decision. When Donar was of age, he made a decision to honor his mother’s memory. Dellingr, Dagr, and Nótt, the members of the alfar to that moment, being a family to Jord just as Donar was, were granted asylum in the clouds, so Dellingr built their castle high up in the isolated blue. The alfar grew and became a respectable people, composed of visitors who decided to stay as well as the children of Dellingr with vanir females. Those people were depicted under a second pair below Dellingr and Jord, spreading along the rest of the wall until it reached the floor. One of the members of the alfar was the blacksmith, the alf who was taught smithing by Dellingr himself, and that blacksmith eventually grew his name to be the legendary Völund, the first one to craft a weapon that could kill a valkyrie. No one could know the blacksmith was not from Nidavellir, because the trial of gods would not allow for a second infraction, so the blacksmith was chained in a dungeon where he worked for several years. His weapons had his signature but he was considered too precious to the king of Alfheim so he kept the whereabouts of this wonderful master of crafts to himself. Every day since the day of his lock-up, Völund spend his isolated days crafting the tools for his escape, but the chains could not be broken, they required advanced knowledge of runes, something this alf didn’t have. The quadruplets eventually learned of the blacksmith, with a weapon being promised to them when they were of age, however that never happened. When Forseti’s voice began to change the head of Mimir found him, letting all folk know the direction his future was headed to, and so his training began, his training and his counseling by Mimir. A few years later, Forseti made a decision as a god of justice, descending into Völund’s cell together with his three twin brother and sisters, then breaking his chains. As a thank you, the blacksmith spared his life, killing his brother and two sisters, after which he flew away on his mechanical wings. It didn’t take long until the desperate alf was stopped by Gullbein. The gatekeeper then aided the alf granting him an audience with the queen of blue, where his tale was unfolded to the third pillar. The white aesir was given the task of taking the king of the clouds to stand trial at the Thing of Gods. For that act, for teaching a folk that not the nidavell the craft of smithing, it disturbed the Web, and for that Dellingr’s son and daughter-in-law were cursed, as well as the alfar. The images carved on the iconostasis below Dellingr and Jord were the cursed images of Dagr and Nótt, the Bee and the Scorpion. Right below the image of the Bee on the wall, there is a figure sculpted that seems to have lost its original design, original shape, and it is just a blob of gold on the wall, clearly standing out from the other minutely crafted sculptures, however that spot on the wall seems to go unnoticed. “Svipdagr! You seem energic as always. Today it seems you would make an exception, wouldn’t you say?”, Forseti smiles as he raises his eyebrows, expecting the person listening to catch the meaning of his words and expressions. A red pair of eyebrows join in a frown, the smile in response to the smile received now was a mixture of confusion and amusement, “Why would I make an exception to my usual behavior, you skinny dipping cloud head?!”, then the male proceeds to laugh, smacking his big naked belly. Each smack feels like it should hurt, the arm is strong, but the belly is also strong, so at the same time it communicates a light-hearted gesture and a strength hinting gesture. His straw skirt moves to the constant wind in this place, the pieces of straw rustle on each other, this male doesn’t seem to carry anything around, no weapons that can be spotted. Red hair styled in cornrow braids going on the sides, a big braid going along the top of the head, and a long hair waving at the back of the head. A respectful handlebar mustache with a pointy tip, yellow teeth always visible, a white spongy and mushy tongue that looks like it’s dead, green hypnotizing eyes that seem to be filled with intrigue and energy. This is a vanir (1,67 m / 5.47 ft) who, even though always smells good, always looks like he stinks the most out of anyone else in a room. The god of pleasure, king ruler of Alfheim, keeper of the peace, and formidable leader, Frey. “The twilight of the gods is also the twilight of the peace of Frey, you eel tongued dirt basket!”, then Forseti smacks his own abdomen as a provocation. The pair laughs and proceeds to walk in the direction of the banquet table, Frey puts one arm around the god of justice. Always behind Frey, walking around without a sound, there is a golden skeleton (5.57 ft / 1,70m) with a round skull and wide pelvic inlet. Just this singular vision is enough to bring out the curiosity and fear out immediately, but another figure also follows the king but standing a bit further from him. A transparent silhouette of a red-haired woman (5.57 ft / 1,70m) glowing in a golden dim light, wearing fur armor with chainmail under it, a fur cape, a skirt going to the knees, and from the skirt to the hard leather boots it is possible to see her strong thighs. She holds a round wood shield that covers her whole torso and her arms, and a type L Dane ax on the other hand. Her eyes are blue-hazel, short eyelashes, thin eyebrows, small nose bridge, wide nostrils, tiny ears. Her hair is short and styled in a messy bob haircut, her face is completely painted with red that resembles blood. The skeleton is Sváfa, Sleep Maker, a gull golem lik with a dis as a guide, valkyrie of the sword, one of the many lives of the shieldmaiden Sigrún, the first mansir warrior to be blessed by the blue thus becoming a valkyrie. The translucent golden glowing silhouette is Kára, the hammingja of Sigrún who was joined with a dis to become a valkyrie, valkyrie of the ax. The king and the prince of svarts sit side by side in a big round table covered with all sorts of food, but mostly leaves and cooked worms. The table sits twenty people and has a hole in the middle, like a wooden wheel, with an inner ring that spins where the food trays are placed. Two more sit at the table and eat, a night-skin with a beefy muscular body and a skinny balding night-skin with deep eyes. The first night-skin (2,56 m / 8.39 ft) dresses in colorful clothing, with several fabrics over one another, wooden rings, wooden wristbands, wood going through one earlobe, wood beads styling a bit of his hair in an uneven matter so it never feels the same hairstyle depending on the angle he was being looked at. Clean cut fingernails which usually indicate this one is either too powerful to even need picking up a weapon, or that he is a conjurer. Barefoot, his toes move constantly against the marble floor. Yellow eyes, rugged dark skin with a hue closer to gray than to brown, wide nose with a bulbous tip, long nose bridge, loud laughter. This is Nörfi Lokijarson, god of sleep and conscience. The skinny balding male sitting next to this one has yellow eyes, similar dark skin, cleft nose, big earlobes, long beard, short bald black hair, yellow teeth from smoking. This male (7.21 ft / 2,20 m) wears black metal pauldrons joined together by leather straps going along the shoulder line, black leather baggy pants, hard leather boots, and fingerless black leather gloves. This second one is Aud Nóttjarson, general of Alfheim, the god of fear, and courage. The black marble keep has no windows, actually, not a single building in this place except for the barracks has windows. The barracks have windows that only serve the purpose of ventilation, so whoever is in there while the first king uses the forge doesn’t suffocate. The rest of the buildings has see-through crystal pillars that go through the ceiling, bringing light inside, and there are also crystals that go through the floor at some places. The crystals spread in the distribution along this large hall, a square hall with room for the banquet table at the center, then some habitational spots with cushions, sitting furniture, musical instruments, and a spot for throwing bones at a big metal vase. On the opposite wall from the entrance door, there is a wall with weapons hanging on it, more like a display of old weapons than an actual place for weapons. Old swords sheathed and placed on weapon mounts, shields covering some swords without sheaths, geometric gadgets placed on stone shelves, some of which still move in their inside. This opposing wall didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, it stopped halfway, revealing a mezzanine where a brown throne could be seen, and there is no clear visible access to it. This wall also didn’t reach all the way to the sides, isolating the throne to a single higher floor, with no clear access to it, and on the walls of the inside of the keep, there was a second level with visible access through stairs on the sides, stairs that start close to the entry door. The stairs rose up only one level and lead to a hallway with several doors leading to bedrooms and bathrooms, among some other recreational spaces. Right above the brown throne, high up in the ceiling, there is an inner dome consisting of colorful crystal imagery of nature, leaves, birds, stars, flowers, water flowing as if it was flying, but not all of it is visible, something covers a bit of the artwork. There is a clear yellow hexagonal box-like structure that seems to be hanging on the ceiling and covering a bit of the artwork in the inner dome, and that hexagonal box is not the only one. In fact, that box links with other boxes going along a fairly large portion of the keep’s ceiling. And then, walking around in the ceiling, a giant fluffy bumblebee, with vibrating wings and pulsating abdomen. The giant insect flies down only to put some crystalized liquid on big trays, with clear moving liquid inside the crystals, and there are quite a few over trays on tables to a more isolated corner. The valkyrie of ghosts flickers into visibility, closer to these tables with crystals on metal trays, it is a more isolated spot. The female aesir takes deep breaths, her eyes lose focus as if the mind was the thing creating images for her, then she closes her eyes and begins walking. Frey puts a hand on Forseti’s shoulder, a peal of loud laughter follows and the vanir squeezes the alf’s arm with vigor, shaking it a bit. “You have to leave before the battle reaches us. Your training is more important than anything. Go find Skírnir and have him arrange a meeting between you and the blacksmith.”, “Why him? Isn’t he the reason we were cursed?”, Frey smiles fades away for a moment, he releases the Svartalfheim prince’s arm, fetches a drink, handing him the drink in the sequence. “The responsibility for the curse is not his, my friend. But… the one responsible is at the same place he is. Taking this conversation there might be helpful to you.”, Forseti listens and drinks, “Also, there is something I’ve always wondered…”. The god of justice takes his time drinking this mead, which is made by the king himself using the honey from the Bee, a very strong and tasteful beverage. Before Frey can continue he is interrupted when Forseti clears his throat, “Mimir told me something once, something that killed tomorrow. Do you know of that expression, my king?”, Frey looks away from him, now he takes a cup for himself then savors his own creation, gargles it, and spits it out, “Unfortunately.”. “There should be only one thing in front of you, and that is not tomorrow, that… is the Web.”, the alf has his eyes lowered down by the memory of that moment, “The stupid Web!”, the vanir throws his cup away, yelling. Now it is the hand of the soldier that rests over the shoulder of the king, “I will go find Skí. I wish you a jolly battle, my king.”, then the god of justice kneels while the vanir king recovers his smile, “Yes, yes, get the niff out! hahaha”. As the king sits down again and chooses from several trays moving on the spinning top what to put on his plate of food, then his eyes move, footsteps denouncing a presence. Höd approaches the king ruler, as she got within his eyesight and he looked her in the eye, her relaxed stroll began to freeze up, her fists clenched, she stopped in front of her king and put one knee on the floor like she was holding ten worlds on her back. “My king, the time has come to collect what is due. Remember?”, her lavender eyes timidly allow his green stare to dive into her emotions, his kind smile shines light into the tension. “You have done enough for us, aesir. More than your clan would ever consider, more than your clan could know about. The two final things I will ask of you, as your king, are the ones I already did at breakfast. Now, that you should remember! hahaha”, they both laugh, the king ruler stands and asks Herjason for her hand, she grabs him and he allows her to raise from the ground with a soft push of his wrist. “You talked with Dellingr already, didn’t you? You are eager like that, like a kid on their birthday! Whatever you require as compensation for your time in my court is already on its way, isn’t it?”, his wide eyes and smile bring confusion to the aesir’s mind, big words seem suitable but she doesn’t consider this one strong enough to deserve them, “Thank you for the compliment. I am… not… worrr….rthy… of such…. wordsss. I will return for our battle, do not worry, my king.”, Frey rests one hand on the top of her head, smiling. Someone clears their throat, the pair looks and sees the first king. On one hand, the dwarfen architect holds a cube made of precious gems, gems which seem to sink into each other, swallow each other, diamond, ruby, emerald, agate, opal, amethyst, like a trapped rainbow. The cube is the size of an adult mansir woman’s head, it floats above the master builder’s hand, Dellingr then hands it to the aesir, who reaches for it and it floats to her. Dangling on the other hand is a morning star, completely made from metal, with its ball, shaft, and handle made from solid steel, and the spikes that shoot out of the steel ball are made from a black glass-like substance. The tip of the handle is also made from the black substance, which gives an impression that this black substance was forged first, put in a mold for the exterior, then the metal was poured over it, inside the mold. The morning star has a name written on it several times, the same name, and one of those names blinks in a dim red light every now and then. “Thank you, master architect. That payment is sufficient.”, Höd grabs both items, turns to face the table, next walks toward an empty chair. She holds the morning star like it was not heavy at all, arriving at the table she places the cube on it, then at the same place, next to where the cube was placed, she grabs a pair of golden glasses with transparent near sight correction lenses, finally, she raises her free hand and whispers “Vekso”. The seed of Ragnarok hangs the glasses on the collar of her dress, picks up a piece of buttered biscuit, and eats it. “Hey there, Flying Fox.”, this voice makes Herjason tremble as the horn had finally been sound, right inside her eardrums. “Ragnarok indeed…”, the black-haired goddess turns to face the one behind her, the one she killed, to see the hole she made on him was still there, and what an embarrassing feat to feel proud of, but she does. “Hey Dot.”, now this new voice erupted her blood completely, those piss-yellow eyes, that body that stole all the interesting eyes from her, that beautiful face always smiling, so nice and joyful, what a fake bitch. “DO NOT CALL ME THAT, MAURIE. ONLY HE CALLS ME THAT. ONLY HE GETS TO.”, the smallest female in this room had just roared, everyone was looking at her, some worried, the rest actually scared, those eyes had real fight now, the yellow eyes recognized that, so Mareridt stopped smiling. “And there she is, out of the cute flowery bushes. You still get mad too easy.”, Baldur looks at her but without smiling, trying to show kindness with his eyes. “It’s funny how you act as if you know me, given your daughter feels more like my sister today than you ever did.”, the Vekso helmet finds Höd’s hand and she puts it on. Pairs of red dots begin to fade in from invisibility, from nothingness, then a humming begins, a collection of several voice ranges creates a hum that fluctuates beautifully from high to low pitch. These hordes of human-like wraiths seem to be in weird synchronicity, as a perfect army. A kind of transparent metallic smoke begins to swirl out of the ground, wherever there are pairs of red dots the smoke rises out to reach them. Out of the walls, the ceiling. Little grains, then little streams of smoke that spread wider, then a figure of a warrior whose eyes shine red, hands stand out blackened and hairy, and from the waist down it collapses in a cascade of smoke. “I love how we have so much in common, you know?”, the matriarch of Svartalfheim avoids smiling, “There is only one thing we have in common that I like, and you know what it is.”, then both females share a smile remembering the same face, the same days together, the same routine, then a tear, and then they hug. “We always do this, but I still don’t understand why. I just mirror what you do, but I don’t feel it like you do. I like it though.”, her glasses rise a little since Mareridt crushes her face with her own, “I guess we got used to each other.”. A loud bang is heard on the rock floor, everything shakes for a brief moment and some small things fall and roll to sides, down higher footing, down from a table, down from hanging on a wall, next a noise guides unused eyes to the source, the huge black scorpion that was lying still on a side of the room, until this very moment where it is banging the floor, scratching the floors. Several people now enter the Keep, people with different heights, different hair colors, different skin colors, different eyes. After entering, this crowd splits up in two lines, one going for the crystalized honey on the metal trays on several tables to one side, the other line going towards the Scorpion on the opposite side. “It is time, you must carry my legions to my lik, lovely adopted sister.”, the red-haired svart kisses the small aesir on the cheek, walks toward the Scorpion as she watches the alfar choose, either to eat the honey from the Bee or to be stung by the scorpion and fall paralyzed, next to be devoured by the huge menacing arachnid. The moment either one of the two happen, one thing is the same, after tasting the golden liquid or the deadly poison, the different eyes change to the same eye, a yellow one. The difference in the eyes would be that one shines under the light, the other under the darkness. “To eat, or to be eaten.”, the male aesir murmurs to himself, amused, as he keeps an eye on his slayer, puzzled by her reaction to seeing him again, or puzzled by his reaction to seeing how she changed. Witnessing the legions that rose when she put the helmet on brought chills to his spine. Lavender eyes that don’t seem to shake to the image in front of them, several alf in a line to be eaten alive by a huge monster. Each time the Scorpion feeds the idea of death makes his sister’s presence more bothersome. Would the stinger of the arachnid feel less painful or more painful if compared to the mistletoe spear? Well, Baldur doesn’t remember thinking much after it happened, which may not be the same experience these poor alf are going through. A sacrifice for power. Ah, what a silly thing to chase after! The amount of power only determines who will come bothering you for favors, for tasks, for infinite servitude. Weak slaves, powerful slaves. Understanding how it really works makes the pursuit of power a real waste of time. Surprisingly the monster is done feasting. The helmet’s plumes move, her black hair moves, they move like that, like that time in the Nibelungen Castle. It feels like the same power. Intimidation or admiration? Who knows. Her power is like the whole room pulsates to her beat, and there are layers of it, layers of power, and it seems like she gives herself a handicap on purpose. That feels familiar but, in her case, it is not a reduction of the range of her powers, but a reduction in her senses, or in the access to the power, some of it. Not wearing the helmet, not wearing her glasses, like there is not a match for her in this place, not even him. Well, obviously not him. Now his sister approaches the huge Scorpion, with such a casual stroll like she approached death itself like there was nothing that could scare her. The colossal black scorpion sinks one of its pedipalps on Herjason’s arm, she screams for a bit until the power of the Svartalfheim armies begins to flow through her. Her breathing changes from pain to pleasure, to ecstasy, this is not a pure power like the one she was given from the queen of blue, this is different. Not a kiss, but a lick to the face. “It’s amazing we got together by fate, two people able to harbor multiple parts of a soul within their beings. What was the name for that? Abode?”, “Yes, abode.”, the god of time answers looking around, scanning the ones inside the Keep, “I have to return. Höd, you have to train the next valkyrie of conjury. This one will be the most powerful. You will find her at the other end, and I am trusting you understand what these words mean.”. “Obviously.”, the Scorpion releases her, the honorary valkyrie hovers an open palm over her bleeding forearm, the fingers forming different shapes at certain moments, after which the wound closes. The two aesir siblings share a quick stare, and both disappear.

Bright orange. Sizzling light, a hand goes over it, vapors and smoke rise from the several objects near the aggressive radiance. The bright carrot-like gleam comes from the center of a solid rock floor, smooth and unpolished, unaffected by the heat, the light from the glowing source reveals the ruggedness of the rock. Scattered around the surroundings of this bright workpiece lie several papers, instruments, books, chemical substances, cups with drinks, food, papers with scribbles, and drawings. Paper burns, solid objects melt, liquids boil, yet all of it remains where it is. Then on some places on the floor, there are scratches, tearing off solid pieces of mineral, visible even from distance, dried up ruby spots of what once were pools of blood with dents on the floor from what seems to be made from hitting a part of one’s own body into the floor. As the arms move around the bright formless blob, it begins to gain shape, it begins to look like something that moves around, like something similar to what shapes it. Different materials are being used to create a sculpture, a humanoid figure, and the proportions suggest it is a female. This is not a simple sculpture job, it shows to be more and more complex the longer it goes. Diamonds are being crafted as a very thin skeleton, which then is put into the cut open molten glass body, then sealed inside of it. Crystals of all sorts of colors shape up a version of each organ inside this translucent golem, after which every one of those is placed on the actual spot where it would be on a real body. The shape and placement of the organs suggest, also, that this humanoid is not a common one, but a humanoid that was somehow merged with an insect. The surrounding walls in this room are blackened and melted because of the constant barrage of lightning that strikes everywhere near this place, upon heavier episodes of the plunge into the abyss. Finally, a blob of shiny molten glass begins to shape the head of this golem-like statue. The sphere floats up about the same height the head of this female would be, a number this ripe general remembers always. Then, through the blob of transparent solid matter, the wielder of lightning and rocks sees the image of a woman with lavender eyes. That face feels like a feeling emerging from deep within, from a place, where not even this male could know the source, and the glass blob floating seems like the tear that would remove his curse and reveal his actual form: the dragon. In an instant, his hands go to his face, they are clean and have no jewelry on them, his face has an expression that mixes fear and pain, his combed hair is assaulted by his hands as if they tried to make that fake image fabricated from his own mind scatter away, his brown eyes always wide open were being tamed by his slow breathing, he crouches down, his eyes meet the image of his feet. Hairy and spotless, the pair of strong bony feet have beautiful shiny nails which move as the toes wiggle around, following his commands, assuring him that his own feet are real. Now his hopes are that, when he looks back at the door, the image of the one he cares for would be gone, because she is not here. The aesir stands by the door, watching the one she wishes she could love as he deals with the feelings her image brings him, wishing similar feelings would start brewing inside her like his face would make waves clash inside, wishing that tears would precipitate on the clouds of her vision. Nothing happens, and the tears that form in her eyes are squeezed out of her own frustration. This is one of the few she sees as an equal, and that is saying a lot. As Durinn looks back at the door, Höd is putting her glasses on and smiling, “I am real.”. The fact she is crying helps the nidavell silence the voices away since his hallucinations rarely display emotion. For the first time after several aeons, the eyes on this small male relax, his stare becomes soothed and natural, he exhales as if he just arrived home. “… That is a relief. Hello, Dot.”, they smile at each other, “Hi, dad. What are you working on over there? Is that a gift for me?”. Durinn giggles, then coughs a bit since laughing so naturally is a weird thing for him, “Ah! You and gifts! No, it’s not for you. I am making something for the war, a special golem.”. Herjason, now moving her eyes around everything, witnesses the mess in this place, “Well, we should give it life and have it clean this room. I feel embarrassed to consider you my equal when you live like this, wouldn’t you agree?”, the general of Nidavellir begins smiling wide, “This golem is a gift for my equal, Pissy Eyes. You wouldn’t know how to build something as complex. Maybe you can help me out cleaning the room, huh? What do you say?”. Höd glared at him in a way it felt she would begin to glow in orange color, burning everything around her, the wide grin on his adoptive father’s face is like a target for her punch. However, she takes a deep breath and makes sure her words come out as calm as possible, “Good to know you still do jokes.”. Silence falls between them, Durinn shakes his head smiling, then stops and turns to her, one hand finds his other arm’s elbow and the remaining hand finds his beard, “Wanna give it a go?”, she looks away with an annoyed face, then when she looks at him he is not smiling anymore. Dot giggles to herself, this moment filled her up with nostalgia. The aesir female approaches the glass golem and begins to examine the design within it, the runic design. “The teeth should be more numerous and really pointy. You know how she loves to bite who she is praying upon. And… uh… this heat healing procedure to forge the pieces back together could be a way to protect herself. Since she is really messed in the head, her fast attacks should be with broken pieces of herself, because that is what she likes most, the messed-up approach… Also…”. As Dot speaks she touches and manipulates the real size glass figurine, Mareridt stares at her with a face of disapproval, making the aesir smile, the figurine becomes more humanoid-like in its internal structure, something that resembles muscles starts to form and shape up in strength. Durinn approaches Dot and gives her a casual smack on the shoulder, “Let’s give her a mirror form so she can hide, also we need to place runes on the whole thing so she can conjure the pieces back.”, she readies herself to do so, but hesitates, “Isn’t that too much? Could that… break the balance?”. The general of Nibelungen opens a tender smile, her lavender eyes are very good to his mind, they bring out an air of a place where there is no pain, her presence heals him, “Dot, this is the queen of Svartalfheim. Her subjects can have the regular golems, ok? Not her.”. It is up to Durinn to sculpt the countenance of his second foreign daughter, the one who used to be his favorite. The glass face is beautiful, just the way Mareridt was the last time he saw her, then he grabs a slab of copper a bit bigger than his own hand and places it on the top of the golem’s head. “Dot, craft her hair, please.”, as Höd obeys this and the other orders from her adoptive father, she searches Mareridt, who was standing right beside her, but she disappeared. The golem is finished, Durinn looks at Dot while she approaches him, he extends his arms to her, she kneels down and they hug. “Thank you, dad.”, Durinn caresses Höd’s head, his mind wanders in nostalgia, until something halts his mind, cold strikes the bottom of his belly, then the thought: “Dot doesn’t sound like that.”. “No. She. Doesn’t.”, the wielder of lightning and rocks turns to his side and sees an open mouth with infinite teeth ready to bite him. “Aaaaah!”, lightning flashes through the image of a monster with yellow eyes, burning and scattering pieces of wall and furniture as she guffaws in a low tone voice. A red-haired woman with rugged light gray skin, a beautiful body, wears a black and heavy dress, seeming like she wears the shadows themselves, her fingers stretch thin like giant claws until they become invisible, her hair is held up in a hair bun, she flexes her legs like she was about to run at her prey. “I am regretting the blasted gift already!!”, the nidavell covers his eyes with trembling hands, his breathing shaking as well, “I told you it was messed-up. You spoil her too much, you know?”, from between his fingers he sees the pale hands of his stepdaughter, and if it wasn’t her he would slap the hand and stand up by himself. “I thought of the last thing, a final touch. Can I do it?”, Durinn struts in the direction of the queen of Svarts, then he stops, looks at Dot, “You can do it, of course.”, and he turns to his second stepdaughter who shows now a beautiful and radiant face. A few feet away, Herjason removes every piece of golden jewelry she has and begins to speak to the metal pieces. “Will you be at Thunderhead?”, Durinn stares at the gem deposits, having a monolog in his own head, something that rarely happens for his mind has unwanted guests constantly, “Fighting in Alfheim is always interesting. I am supposed to lead the offensive alongside Alviss and Motsognir… against you girls. Some other dung lickers are also going to be there but they matter not.”. Mareridt attempts to apologize to her foster father by smiling plus making sad faces as a joke, but she is ignored. “On the subject of gifts, I also have a gift. For you, dad.”, after these words Höd now does something she doesn’t usually do, she walks to objects and grabs them instead of summoning them to her hand. The smiling nidavell chooses the gems to become his armor, and small pieces of rock to give his brother-in-arms, “Oh, do you now? You are kind, Dot. There was no need. I appreciate it anyhow.”. The daughter of the Scorpion walks in the direction of the glass figurine and amazement bit by bit flourishes on her face due to the precision, the attention to detail, the way this sculpture resembles her. “It’s a little something Dellingr crafted, and another something the blacksmith crafted. Remember the blacksmith?”, the nidavell general, who was a few feet away from the goddess of weapons, blinks in front of her, electricity spreads swiftly everywhere from where he lands and he grabs the weapon from her hand with such vigor the honorary valkyrie loses her balance for a moment. “The forbidden blacksmith?! The one who brought the curse upon his own people!? The slayer of…”, both the nidavell and the aesir look at the matriarch of Svartalfheim, afraid of mentioning this traumatic piece of history out loud, even worse in front of her. “Forgive me, Maurie.”, Durinn lowers his head, throwing the morning star away in the sequence. “I only got this weapon because of its owner, not because of the one who crafted it. I meant no harm in my actions.”, Höd remains with her normal expression, confident her stepsister will understand. After a few moments in silence, Mareridt turns to face her family, “Not only power can be inherited, but also the undoing of those who came before you. Rage, fortunately, is no inheritance, it is a choice. I choose to love.”, Mareridt makes the most effort to smile after those words, but no smile of hers is able to lift this weight, so her expression stays neutral. The nidavell begins gesticulating as if about to say something, “Your mind tells me there is one last gift.”, says Mareridt, both the general of Nibelungen and the goddess of weapons stare at her family, the nidavell’s eyes feel heavy, the honorary valkyrie’s feel startled. “Well, there is the weapon, which is not important, there is the golem grain…”, and with that said Herjason shows a floating cube, after which she points her palm to the floor, “… and there is him.”. Two red dots appear, transparent beams of light, leaning a bit to one side, then silver metallic smoke begins to emerge from the floor, spiraling upwards in the direction of the two red dots. The silver-like translucent smoke reveals a mansir male (1,77 m / 5,8 ft) wearing a valsgarde leather body armor with fur coming out of the neck hole and armhole, chain mail covering the arms and dangling down to the knee going down the waist, steel splinted valsgarde vambraces on the forearms and shins, legs and feet covered in thick leather pants and boots, a long black beard sticks out of the valsgarde 6 helmet, and the red eyes get lost inside the armor piece, only red metallic smoke streams out the eye sockets of the helmet. This is the first hero of Midgard, the one poetry kept alive with different names and slightly different feats, the master of battle, strategy, and of the art of galdrar, allowed by the Thing of Gods to keep the weapon made for him by the traitors in the older days. If there would be a title in a list for this one, it would be the title of ‘best of warriors’. The warrior who captured the heart of a valkyrie, a deed without measure, the leader of the einherjar, the first golden einherjar. “Starkad. You would give him to me? Why?”, the silhouette walks from the side of the aesir to the side of the little one, kneeling in front of him. “Your hudr needs cleaning more urgently than this room will ever need. A fylgja helps the nidavell folk stay away from insanity, sadness, loneliness, and provides council. You definitely need him, dad.”. Mareridt says that as she tries to fit inside her golem, probably wanting to get their attention. When the other two see that, they point their palms to the statue. The golem begins to shake, vibrate, become orange again, on the next moment it spasms forward and falls, the hands react and stop the fall. After a few moments, the glass returns to normal temperature, and the golem moves, standing up. The diamond skeleton had been reshaped and changed to be closer to the skin, then inside the bone tissue muscle tissue formed smaller and smaller fibers that ended up similar to cables that conduct light, numberless cables entwining together and creating a thick structure of muscles that begins in the eyes and ends at the palms, and soles of the limbs. The muscle fibers covered the organs and shaped a freakish image of a kaleidoscope of colors as the light went through the clear skin, then the geometric diamond, then the several layered muscle tissues to arrive at the crystal organs. A transparent feminine body, with a diamond carapace close to the skin and muscle fibers that resemble a bunch of cables, joined together. Before the matriarch of Svartalfheim changes her appearance Durinn notices her right eye is made of gold, and on the next blink, her eyes become the regular old piss yellow. “We have to return, dad.”, both female aesir approach the nidavell to give him a hug, but they stop, look at each other, and smile. “That is right, remember the rule.”, Durinn doesn’t look at them, he takes a deep breath, places his hands on his hips, his smoke-shaped fylgja stands beside him looking in the same direction he looks. Both females smile, “No goodbye hugs, only hello hugs.”, they say at the same time in a comedic tone, Durinn stares at Höd first and at Mareridt second, “Well, yes. You, yeah, the rule applies. Not you. You go put on some clothes before you think of hugging your father.”, the nidavell general smiles as they laugh at him, he takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. “Prepare for war!”, a loud and low tone voice echoes along the corridor, the wielder of lightning and rocks opens his eyes and he is alone in his room once more.

It hurts to look at, the image in front of the eyes hurts, the smoke going into the eyes hurts, the heat hurts. The incandescence caresses the skin with the sharpest of nails while what once was a beautiful place was transformed into a picture where the only colors were screams and pain. Green eyes are swimming, drowning in disbelief, everything there was, the childhood, the friends, the memories, it was all gone, all being sucked down a drain, and if something didn’t cover that hole all would be lost. Her blonde hair sticks to her damp face, neck, and head, as well as her damp white skin, which has become reddish with this constant flowing of emotions. She now wears a tight black cotton bodysuit covered in straw wicker armor, holds her wand with a relaxed grip, and has her tiny animal followers as well as her dis waiting for her command, for a move to be made. She stands at the highest part of the cage room, right in front of the opening that goes inside the central pillar shaft and out of that metal structure, falling further down into the burning scenery. Taking a step forward, although, would make all of this real, would make her part of it, part of the blame if it fails miserably, part of the shame of it all. Then, a hand reaches her hand, pulling her gaze to it, then her eyes follow up the forearm, the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the lips, and then… the red eyes. “Join me in battle.”, green eyes watch those lips utter words even though the red eyes seem to be what actually communicate anything, “Become my soldier.”, the breathing spreads with room to move around, the red swimming around the surface of the white lake of her skin sinks into the bottom of her mind, “Allow me to take away your fear.”, the muscles move now warming up the body, little jumps, small movements, quick whispering of enchantments, the wand aims at leaves closeby that become ripped in pieces with rune scribblings, “Be my einherjar, princess Gørsimi!”. The vanir princess’ eyes become red and she screams, jumping down the shaft in the cage room by the top of Heartwood. Little mice hold on to her armor, little birds follow along spreading a bit further away, the wraith clings to her chosen, locking eyes with anyone who poses a threat to the inhabitants. Fat, giant creatures seeming to be made of water and vegetation attack the vanir all over the lower floors and some reach the middle levels, meeting formidable resistance. At the center of the tower, there is an open space that reaches up to the shaft in the cage room, so the vanir princess falls without meeting any obstacles. An eye exchange with her dis communicates what her mind elaborates, the wraith flies off and the blonde völva keeps descending towards the green waters. As she falls she passes by a group of vanir adults who hit the bottom of an aqueduct with a long wrought iron ingot, also around that group there are other vanir who attempt the same thing. The broken leaves create an air current that allows for Gørsimi to guide her fall with ease, and then something shoots out, a light, a loud bang, screams, fire erupts. Her wrist suggests the tiniest movement and the next moment she gains speed, now headed to the sudden fire. A familiar broken shriek pulls her head to one side, brown eyes, then something flies at her just as the brown eyes said it would happen. Wooden spikes, ice rocks, she twirls with the leaves and the wind, zooming out of the way and the projectiles miss her. Finally, Gørsimi lands on a branch platform, like several there are all over this tower, thick branches with leaves that seem to flatten whenever there is any pressure on them. Closer to the wall, on the same branch, she sees it, her eyes shine out of curiosity and she smiles. Surrounded by creatures at her feet and above her head, the goddess of beauty has nothing but excitement in her heart as she watches the huge monster snare at her and ready an attack in her direction, with fixated eyes, a black circle that shines surrounded by orange eyelids. The creature has a long body (5 m / 16,4 ft long; 1,8 m / 5,9 ft high), similar to a snake, however, it doesn’t have scales, but it is moist, almost greasy looking, frontal limbs where the connection between the radius and humerus bend like an elbow would, posterior limbs where the connection between the tibia and the femur bend like a knee would, the toes of the beast have round and flat tips allowing for great grip, the head has black round eyes, a closed mouth in a perpetual frown expression until it opens and a long and thin tongue shoots out, a tongue that seems to be made of gold. Indeed the tongue shoots, but it transformed from gold to pure lightning, flashing, all eyes come to a close, something explodes. Standing still, the red dragon waits and blinks, and its nostrils catch something, it readies for an attack growling and shaking. This is the shame of Nidavellir, the defeated king, the fool who guided troops into certain death, the idiot who let a drunk Hrungnir travel into an aesir trap, the king who sat at the throne when nidavell crafted gifts for the ones who won the war and, without being able to bear it, shed a tear that broke his curse and removed his likeness to the Alfödr, becoming the worm of Ymir. This is the second king of Nibelungen, Alberich, the brother-in-arms of Alviss, master of blood and fog, the lord elemental wielder of all unliving things. Another dragon stares at the second king, its exact copy, then it becomes clear, it is a reflection. A wall of liquid metal rose and blocked the lightning, then as it shrinks back to a ball of floating chaos, splitting up and breaking as lightning runs all over it, a pair of tiny hands control the shiny substance. Dirty hands with overgrown nails blackened around the sides, hairy, dangling on the wrist, like they were limp as dead hands would be… like that action was not something the hands desired to do. Bushy arms and feet, covered in charcoal and grease. Leather overalls cover the legs and torso, dark brown, no pockets, no specific details to them. Red hair with hints of white on the sides, the back, and strong hints of invisible around the top of the head. Full beard, lips that are often tucked into the mouth and licked, what to some opponents denounces some distress, either in battle or in a game. Brown eyes with a lowered upper eyelid to them, with expressive eyebrows that shoot out facial remarks of confusion and dullness, denouncing the immense desire to be far away from here. This one is a nidavell who made a choice, leaving his fate in the hands of his king, which as his general seemed quite fitting at the time. Now, understanding what his decision meant, he is brimming with frustration and rage. He is Dvalin, nidavell general, the lord elemental wielder of fire and metal. “When he becomes mine, you become mine. Understand, dwarf?”, he doesn’t look at her, the only hint of her position, aside from her presence, is the sizzling of the cigarette she smokes. “Temujin.”, the smoke stream of the exhale after the calling of this name slithers over Dvalin’s head as a golden light starts to spread, forming a silhouette right in front of the little general, at that instant a mansir male appears. Eyes like a fast water droplet, thick black eyebrows, nose with a timid curve on the bridge starting at an angle and ending straight, thin lips, patchy beard that is short on the face and long under the mandible. Strong body (1,81 m / 5,93 ft) covered in leather armor that seems to have metal plates bolted under the leather, three metal rivets are visible at each square of leather separated with stitching. The leather armor goes as one piece around the torso, then at the waist, it breaks into another part, two separated leather armor pieces cover the waist and thighs, embracing them, leaving a gap in the middle. Cotton pants cover the shins, brown wool pointy shoes add a bit of flair. The shoulders plus the arms are covered with leather armor, the forearms are covered with metal bracelets and the hands wear fingerless cotton gloves. This is the unifier of Mongolia, Genghis Khan. Swift movements on the hands signal to the dragon that the mansir specter is about to attack, branches from the floor snap and fly to the Mongolian warrior’s left hand, the branches craft themselves into a longbow with a strong string. Next, some other branches craft themselves into arrows that the einherjar grabs, then with one arrow at the tip of his right-hand fingers he draws his bow, the dragon growls. Scarlet eyes watch these players present themselves and steal the creature’s attention, it feels like a rare opportunity. The goddess of beauty moves her wand in lickety-split fashion, carving runes on tree branches around her, then the branches snap and break into smaller pieces, and in a few moments will rain like arrows over the red beast. Then the spiked arrow-like wood pieces stop, trembling until they break, something interfered with Gørsimi’s attack. Without warning, a water jet prays on the princess and her animal followers, spreading them from each other. The next matriarch of Vanaheim falls from the branch level she was and spins around until she is able to call the leaves she carved with runes to shield her fall, but she still hits the lower level pretty hard. Red eyes open, the pain would be the first thing on her mind, usually, however, now the eyes pierce through the dizziness, searching for an enemy that could be about to strike. After pretending to be down for a bit, Gørsimi raises her head quickly as screams erupt, followed by her wand, after seeing no immediate threats she allows herself to cough and rub her eyes. “Some low magic ain’t cutting, dove.”, two figures descend in front of the princess, more to the edge of the branch level, nearing the center of the tower. A pair of old nidavell (1,10 m / 3,96 ft; 1,42 m / 4,65 ft) where the taller nidavell is the creepiest member of this folk the Igunar has ever seen. Bald head surrounded by gleaming oily white hair reaching to his waist, toothless mouth outlined by broken and bloody lips where the blood doesn’t flow since it is as dry as the surface of his entire hairless flaky skin. Thin body with a bloated belly, dirty nails, spit flies out of his mouth as he laughs, his eyes fixated on the vanir princess’ body. Dark brown eyes, thin crooked nose, floppy ears, lantern jaw with a pointy chin. He wears rags that seem like they were white one day consisting of a cotton shirt and cotton pants, and a pendant consisting of dark fiber with strings poking out of it going around the neck and holding a golden leaf that hangs on his chest. On his hand, this nidavell has what seem to be seeds of plants. This is Fjallar, nidavell himthiki, lord elemental smithy of transitory things. The second nidavell has buzzcut white hair, a well-kept full beard, and wears similar rags as his companion yet his garments shine in pure clean white. A strong body covered in flaccid skin, he wears well-polished crystal-like onyx beads that go around his neck, then form lines and connect all over his upper body, like an invisible long sleeve shirt, with bead lines going along the shoulder, then the line connects with three other lines, one going down the arm and the other two descending the torso diagonally. The diagonal beads meet where the heart is, then a single line descends to the waist, going around it, with four bead lines going up from the waist, two in the center then two on the sides meeting under the arm with the bead line that circles the arms. He is barefoot and wears white ragged cotton shorts. His eyes are a mixture of blue and green, with a gaze that usually trembles when in front of a beautiful female as they do right now. Thick nose bridge, wide nostrils, upturned tip, white hair crawls out of it. Water spheres float around this little male. This one is Frænir, nidavell himthiki, lord elemental wielder of transitory things. “I appreciate the advice.”, Gørsimi smiles as she exchanges a gaze with Frænir, who doesn’t look at her in any way that bothers her, unlike his nidavell brother-in-arms. Now using both her free hand and her wand, also whispering several things that are hard to hear, the next matriarch raises new pieces of tree branches, forming sharp projectiles that shoot at the nidavell pair. The red eyes register that none of the nidavell move an inch to block the attack, and they get hit by the projectiles, suffering no damage from it. “Couldn’t stop those ones. Impressive, dove.”, Igunar’s stare becomes puzzled because he is saying he tried to block it, yet he didn’t move his arms. “HAHAHAHA SHAME YOU ARE IMPORTANT I WAS IMAGINING YOUR SMELL ALREADY.”, Fjallar stands still while the seeds in his hand sprout like a flash and grow into full trees that bend doing circles, creating a semi-dome that covers the nidavell’s back. Some tree structures grow down and lift this semi-dome, moving like a creature with legs. The tree limbs don’t move like legs, instead, the plants shrink back into smaller, younger versions of themselves, only to grow back in a different way, bending as they grow, lifting the semi-dome, creating a spectacle of power display as this vegetation chimera moves around. Crimson eyes spot an icicle projectile from the corner of the vision, without moving her gaze to it Gørsimi points her free hand at the projectile then flips her palm completely. Ymir’s worm witnesses the icicle he just shot in the direction of the princess shake and shoot back with even more speed, so he places his hand inside a water sphere and points a finger at the icicle, shooting out a compressed water jet the size of his finger. The water jet pierces through the icicle and forces the vanir warrior to jump out of the way, then having to dodge the pointy branches that poke in her direction. “Fjallar! Move!”, the wielder of transitory things warns his brother-in-arms while he also shoots pressured water jets at a spot to the other nidavell’s back. The ugly nidavell doesn’t even look at what might be behind him, he only rolls out of his arboreal golem just in time before it is cut in two with a clean diagonal cut. The contorted plant monstrosity collapses with each half falling in a different direction, the cleanest cut is visible on both sides. Something reflects light, a flick of light is visible in the middle of the plant rubble, but it is not a reflection per see, instead, it seems like refraction, the light behaves like when it goes through something transparent. The light that shoots down from the top of the tower spreads across several directions, less focused light beams point at the walls, weak flashes blink from time to time. Then a human-like figure walks out of the plant rubble holding a transparent object. A crystal sword. “The sword of the king of kings. So it is you.”, Frænir keeps an eye on the princess and switches his gaze back to the translucent weapon. The crystal sword wobbles like a liquid when it is moved around, like the surface of a lake, yet the solid form never changes, and when it cut the tree it went through it as if there was nothing holding it, no attrition (superfluid helium-4). This is the finest creation of the goddess of weapons, a gift given as service to the blue, the sword of the king of kings, a weapon only a mansir with enough fortune and good deeds on his name could pull out of the rock it was stuck at, the sword Excalibur. Fire and smoke now spread everywhere, looking in any direction hurt the eyes, breathing feels like a trap. Screams surround the entire environment, it feels like this place is dying and it is inevitable. “Are you in need of help, milady?”, as Gørsimi raises her red eyes toward the voice she just heard, a dim golden light flows toward her face, a single tear rolls out of her eye. She sees a blonde mansir male with a clean shaved face, blue eyes, full-body steel armor with golden details on the chest plates, some ugly scratches are displayed on some parts of the armor, a few dents, but none of that matters when this mansir looks her in the eye and smiles. “Yes. I need help. We need to defeat our enemies fast and help my people.”, her red eyes turn from the einherjar to her dis, “I feel that my sister is in danger. Help her.”, and the wraith yells as the face turns up, rocketing upwards. As the old woman passes through tree structures and bodies of fallen warriors she notices up ahead a golden silhouette climbing under branches, slowly approaching the middle of the branch structure. As the dis passes she glances to what lies over the branch, at the point the golden warrior of the gods hangs just below from, and there lies the dragon. Smoke blinds the swift ascend, noisy smoke, screams, strikes, trees breaking, leaves being torn as gravity claims a body who protests, cries for help. When the smoke clears, there it is, the cage. Some damage is visible looking from a distance, a battle seems to have started over there some time ago by now. The wraith moves her eyes towards the goddess of desire as the crystalline body emerges from the floor and, at first, the dis feels like the young vanir screams at her. Gersemi’s body lies on the floor, her limbs broken and blood gushes out, her limbs are cut up and pierced by bits of her own straw armor. Tears stream out of her shaking head, if whatever makes her body tremble is anger or approaching death that remains a mystery. Some bits of the straw armor fall down on the floor while other bits sink into the goddess’ body, amping up her roar, pulling her eyes out as they get wider, the pain. The vanir princess’ eyes find the old woman’s gaze, yet Gersemi’s eyes look further, however, through the dis, then the wraith turns around to see some other female floating above the ground. Sparkling blonde hair wraps around a body with a tempting figure, so much so the image feels like a wrapped gift, but the complete image brings an opposite feeling. The face is covered and the neck is being crushed by the hair itself. The body moves in strong, explosive, motion while the muffled voice inside, already tired of screaming, begs for mercy. With effective knowledge, the dis flies to the source of that power that is visible to her, a thread of flowing power is visible to the transparent female, where the thread ends on the only hand pointing at the trapped general of Vanaheim, then the spirit puts a stop to it. A tanned hairy hand retreats, clean-cut square fingernails are pressed against the palm of the hand, green eyes lock on the crystal brown gaze that is clearly there, the scream still echoes inside the hairy ears, a mix of shrill sounds, a high pitch one and a low tone one. Short blonde hair, scruffy beard that paints the face with its volume, a nose with a bridge that resembles a drop of water being slim at the top and then it gets thicker and wider all the way to the tip, thick upward eyebrows, uneven lips with the right vermilion border being higher than the left one. This male (1,36 m / 4.46 ft) is in shape, which is visible since his leather tight suit allows for the outline of his body to show very well, over that tight suit there is wooden armor, over the chest, shoulders, forearms, torso, waist, and shins. He wears black leather boots that constantly shine since he tends to get them wet whenever he is in battle. This is the first nidavell to be granted a rank in the jotunnar army, one of the new soldiers to bring back the glory of the clan. The lord elemental wielder of transitory things, general of Jotunheim, Fafnir. The young vanir expells the bits of straw armor out of her body then she runs for her mother, stumbling and rolling on the floor as her legs recover with amazing speed, and helps her breathe removing the hair from her face, Freyja coughs and inhales with violence, her eyes tear up. “Thud!”, right beside this tiny general, the goddess of violence falls to the floor after hitting the cage wall, her red eyes find his eyes, then she immediately dodges a strike. A giant ax slams the floor Trudi was just crouched on, bending and snapping the metal floor in a flash. A shirtless male (3,59 m / 11.77 ft) wearing a black soft scaled leather skirt and Viking fur leggings, turns his head to seek his opponent. His gaze meets the dis, he spits on the floor in her direction, after which he sprints away with incredible speed since his legs seem to be elastic, stretching further and contracting harder, making this male move like a shockwave. His skin has two tones between pale and honey-colored skin, the contrast makes it look like clouds in the sunset sky (vitiligo), his red frizzy hair has enough length to dance in the constant breeze in this place, his chestnut eyes give a stare which chills down whatever calming energy his relaxed posture and gestures might be communicating. This is Kalfi Nerthusjarson, the one who inherited the forbidden weapon of Hrungnir, the great ax, son of the golem, a golem himself, and general of Jotunheim. The jotun general finds himself at the other side of the cage room, in a flash, aiming the ax strike at the neck of the aesir princess, but she dodges and rolls away from him. Kalfi stares at her, waiting for her, tired of the chase, then she ignores him completely and it infuriates him. Before the golem can pursue her he feels something holding his arm, he looks, “It’s you. I remember you.”, the yellow eyes are serene and the smile is charming. Kalfi looks at his opponents afraid his momentary distraction might be his downfall, but it seems like he is not even here anymore. The female warriors aim at his nidavell companion, like he had disappeared. Then he looks back at the one besides him. A light skin male wearing a green long overcoat with silver sewing stitches on the sleeves and along the side of the arm, shoulder, and the edges of the piece. A dark-colored mist seems to flow out of the overcoat, a hand covered in a black glove holds the arm of this general of Jotunheim with no worry about the place they are right now. “Move these rocks for me. I need to reach further inside.”, then as the alf points and the jotun’s eyes follow he sees several rocks placed over what has the outline of a door arch. A weird feeling begins to creep inside the golem’s mind. First, he seems to have vanished by the way the aesir and vanir warriors stopped worrying about him. Maybe he is invisible or something. And that line of thinking brings him to the second thing. He has been in this iron cage for some time now, jumping and running around, finding places his opponents would try to escape from, then keeping them on the edge of his vision whenever he could. He never saw these rocks, he never saw this door. Never. Why are these suddenly here? Then the bottom of his stomach froze as the answer popped in his mind: magic. This alf he never knows how is called, whatever his name is, he also was never here. The black mist slithers around both the feet of the one wearing the green overcoat, as well as the jotun who now is being completely ignored by the ones who are here to protect the goddess of fertility, so now those two protectors, the aesir and the vanir, turn their attention to the nidavell who seems to still be relevant. “Ezra, it seems we are about to fight for real.”, a female silhouette appears by Fafnir’s side while water gathers next to them and a water golem begins to shape itself out of the water that floats in mid-air. The nidavell points his hand to the water humanoid shape, the silhouette walks inside it and it shakes. Without waste of time both the elemental wielder of transitory things as well as the water golem jump at the female pair then, as Trudi chooses Fafnir to be her opponent, she whispers to Gersemi, “Don’t swallow the water, it will pierce your insides.”. A wooden door, the little man with yellow eyes goes through it yet to Kalfi this whole thing is so bizarre it feels like it’s cascading in front of his eyes, making it impossible to open them. A green bridge made of branches, flowers, and vines connects the center of Heartwood where the cage room stands all the way to the wall of this huge structure. Running towards the end of it, stopping by the engraved wooden door on the other side, on the wall of the giant tower, are the bull terrier and the blonde dis, the ones who follow the alf, or the ones the alf follows. “What the niff is going on?! Ey!”, the yellow eyes catch the image of his dis all the way on the other side of the bridge he just began traversing, he then turns to look at the protesting giant male crouching inside the metal cage. “I need to go there.”, the alf turns his look to face the bridge again and returns to his walking to the other side. Kalfi sees the black-colored mist under his body, on the floor, caressing his feet without him feeling anything. His breathing is slow-paced, there is an iceberg down his belly, sweat climbs down from his face and skin as it attempted to escape the fear inside him. Watching this alf companion of sorts walk closer and closer towards the other side is a mind-stabbing experience. Each quiet step stretches the mist trail building a black intangible bridge between these two, like a shared shadow. Kalfi looks at the black mist as it seems it will not vanish, as if this moment still needs more, as if maybe what made him part of it was not the alf, but something else. ‘Is this the kind of magic that lured my father to his death?’, he wonders in his own mind as he sees the alf open the door on the other edge of the bridge, then gold shines through it. Then the jotun remembers, ‘This one is a thief! That is why.’, and that calms him down, so he chooses to crawl through the door and run after that gold so he can claim his reward. Elegast watches his bull terrier lie down and keep still, something that communicates fear. Inside the room, the alf finds a blue and green gaze, a blonde dis, holding a spear, points at a body on the floor. Next to the body, the chosen king of Svartalfheim sees what seems to be a crumbled brown stone throne, with broken golden roots coming out of the bit that still remains in this place. One arm of the throne and a bit of the seat remain, the rest of it seems to have been violently removed. This throne of once upon stands by the end of the room, a circular room, with wooden walls and a golden root ceiling that fills the place with light as it shines. Just in front of the throne lies a beheaded body of a pale giant, naked, with one of the legs chopped open and the femur exposed. The body feels alive, it moves somewhat, like the body was asleep, or in a coma. There is a weird cut on the neck, a cut made by the C7 vertebrae, the one closer to the base of the neck, and there are leaves and petals over the exposed tissue of the throat muscles and veins, with some colored substance that seems to have been spread on the wound. However, the entire bone structure of the neck is still there, up to the C1 vertebrae, with only the skull missing. The exposed femur is golden and the exposed vertebrae, out of the neck and not touched by the substance, has a blue hue, being metallic blue neck bones. “Deadbranch.”, Elegast turns to the door with no hurry, Kalfi points at the metallic blue neck vertebrae pieces, “That is a sight, it’s rare.”, his yellow eyes have no rational machinery behind them, he just looks again at his dis and aims his grab at the thing she points to. Whatever this alf desired, whatever brought him to become who he is, is now unreachable. The one who seems to remember and has given up telling him is his dis, the one sworn to follow the royal descendant until his final day. “Explains the journey, I guess.”, the alf pulls the blue metal piece from the neck of the gargantuan corpse feeling it won’t budge, yet it does, to his surprise. Kalfi passes his fingers along with the roots on the ceiling, one of his favorite things in any world, smiling, “Do you know from whom you are stealing? Crazy. Insane.”. The chosen king, one who has met most of the powerful ones, the only one who was able to steal ultimate power, the master of thieves, takes a deep breath, “Do you actually believe the king of green would allow me here if he didn’t want me here? Why do you think… you are here?”, and the giant male looks down to his mysterious accomplice, his blood boiling a bit as this yellow-eyed prick had just broken inside his mind, his feelings, since that was his exact interior inquiry. “I would say I am here to collect my reward for being part of your journey.”, and then Elegast jumps away from the corpse, Kalfi watches him move, followed by his own movement after witnessing the pale headless behemoth move, the corpse on the ground sits down. Kalfi points his ax at the decapitated body of the king of green, “OOOh no! Stand back!”, the body of Mimir raises one hand, then the blue metallic vertebrae bones flies out of the alf’s hand, floating in front of the pale jotun’s hand. “This is a trap! I thought so! Ey what!?”, the femur of Mimir levitates out of his leg and floats in front of his remaining hand, with the remaining arm also stretched out. At the same time, the index fingers of Six Legs touch each of his bone pieces, the femur rings and shines, while the vertebrae pieces shake and suck the sound of the room bringing silence to the moment. The master of thieves puts a hand out to receive a metallic blue cyclone double-bladed knife, a blade without a handle, three cutting edges joined together in a triangular shape that twists around itself, both ends being pointy tips. The general of Jotunheim puts both hands out to receive a golden patterned double-headed danish ax, with a thin metal haft where the metal on the haft is hammered metal around the grip and the belly, and the blade has patterns that resemble ice and stone. Elegast watches his dis run out of the room, following after her as his blue blade flies by itself, hiding inside his overcoat. Kalfi holds two axes, his eyes are fixated on the headless jotun that lies down on the floor, his mind filled with rage. The jotunnar were supposed to be the strongest ones, the kings, the owners of the best females, but that is not the jotun he sees in front of him. The son of the strongest jotun, a jotun that was killed even though “strongest” was the banner following him everywhere, even though “strongest” was his shield. That shield shattered. And here lies the Spider, the pale jotun, the “wisest” of us all, Six Legs, the king of green, Mimir. Dead and alone. A body without a grave. Forgotten in a room no one remembers. ‘Is this what I am?’, Kalfi thinks as he looks at the ax he holds on his right hand, his father’s ax, ‘Is it just something I am following around? Like a shadow?’, he looks down, the black mist remains by his feet. Then the jotun looks at his new ax, on his left hand. ‘I can’t. I am sorry.’. Hrungnir’s ax finds the ground, the wooden door is closed, the dark-colored mist trail goes back to the iron cage, but Kalfi jumps down the bridge, jumping from tree branch to tree branch as he descends. The mist spreads thinly on the bridge floor until it vanishes.

Pieces of paper dance along a straight rock surface, the only sound around this place are the sounds of little things like that. Dry leaves sweep themselves around, birds tweedle then dogs bark, the sky moves. Houses stand inanimate, cars sleep covered in rust and snow, wild animals run all over sniffing around trashcans. Midgard sleeps in broad daylight, the town has a cold stillness like an animal upon discovering a predator lurks around. Voices can be heard, almost like a whisper, inside a snack bar that has no visible food on sight. On a television screen screwed at the top of a corner, a mansir female is visible wearing social attire and speaking about footage of military mansir fighting against wild creatures, and not only carnivores but herbivores and docile domesticated animals as well. The voice of the mansir female talking on the flat tv becomes overwhelmed by the voices speaking in a room in the snack bar until someone screams and bangs on metal. A metal door opens, someone is thrown out, rocks hit the body, screams are heard, then crying. The crying one is chased out to the street by a crowd, several people keep throwing all sorts of objects at this mansir. All around that crying figure, there can be seen bodies on the streets, and amongst these bodies, the most disturbing vision is the body of a catholic priest who seems to have been stabbed by multiple crucifixes. Runes have been drawn over the walls, on some doors, and catholic churches have been burned to the ground. The figure walks with a limp, breathing as tears roll down, with a trembling exhale, next a scream is heard and mansir males run towards this figure, who begins running from them in response. The figure’s hand goes to a metal thing hanging on the neck, something that resembles a cross but when observed more closely reveals the image of a hammer. As the figure holds the metal image words are uttered, not in any regular language that someone from Midgard would know, and the skies growl in the distance. The direction this figure runs to changes in a second, the eyes become more focused, the body balances itself better, the breathing paces up with the movement. Gray silence fades to green silence, with a few footsteps sprinkling over it. Droplets of blood are caught by grass leaves, the muffled sound of irregular footsteps vibrates along the silent landscape. A timid breeze passes through the trees and rocks, caressing the green soil, giving the tumbling figure a light push as they limp forward almost falling. Only one eye is open, with the eyelashes barricading against the sweat and blood barging in, aiming for the brown eye. The mouth feeds desperately on air as if there was a battle between the rushing blood and the rushing air, and falling felt like a sweet rest so the legs were shaking and showing split seconds of faltering. The ears tried to catch any sound coming from behind, the eye kept fixated at the same spot, the same reference, the mountain top, but the mountain was not the destination. The skin shook to the idea of being hit out of nowhere, the hair crawling together to the idea of being grabbed, tears streaming down because home was not a safe place anymore. The figure is a mansir female (1,57 m / 5.15 ft) wearing a green cotton t-shirt, dark grey jeans, blue transparent silk scarf, black timberland boots. Her face had slight wrinkles on the eyes when she smiled, her brown hair had white highlights underneath to make her aging more fashionable and make her relatable in some way to younger women, brown eyes with a resolution at every stare, oval lips with subtle metallic nude shades of lipstick. She is Anika, certified priestess of the Celtic Reconstructionist Paganism community in a small town, a place that fell to madness after the end of the world became a reality in the collective mind of Midgard. Not too far from there, the sound of chewing disturbs the peace of the snowy mountain scenery, as the scarlet that spreads over the floor ruins the beauty of this place. A natural clearing allows for the sky to be visible, snow to gently dance in the air until it hits the floor, and at the center of this clearing, there is a vertical stone flat on one side with runes inscribed on this flat side going along the lower side, forming an arch around the edge until it reaches the other side on the lower end. A big hand reaches for the runestone, night-skin easy showing against the white floor, fingers almost touching the traditional symbols but hesitating to do so, “I remember the day this was placed here.”. The jotun male (9,8 ft \ 2,98 m) has his solid arms out for a show, his torso is covered with silver chainmail, he wears black leather pants a bit loose, and black leather boots. He has a goatee, his usual smile is gone, his red eyes that would only look at nothingness while the mind tortures itself either about the unchangeable past or about the uncontrollable future now rest on the present moment. Red eyes scan the area collecting pieces of memory, ears echoing words that were said, a lot of things feel out of place, inside and outside, transformed forever. His hair is styled in zigzag cornrows, he caresses his hair then he looks at the hair of a male that lands close to him, like a falling creature, making noise and ruckus as he rises from his kneeling down position. This aesir male (7,2 ft / 2,2 m) also has zigzag cornrows on the top of his head but his one ends on a topknot, the rest of the hair on the sides and back is loose. His right eye is blue and scans the path leading to this clearing, “Colors, noises, again. This is where Röksva dies, every time.”, the god of skies stares at his own fingertips as he passes his thumb over them, trying to find a sensation of the liquid on them, to rub the red of her blood out. Odinson’s hand finds Laufeyjarson’s shoulder, it squeezes and shakes, a deep breath is heard, “Last Röksva. No child. She is the child.”. Loki hears the words, ruby eyes reciprocate what the sapphire eyes express, then the god of lies raises one arm that in a split second becomes clean bones, after which a female blinks beside them. Light brown cotton covers this female’s figure, a broom falls down, the male pair looks at her expression as if waiting for her to know what to say, “What is this?”. Loki is ready for any lies this one wishes to conjure up to avoid doing his biding, his simple biding, if it wasn’t personal he would be smiling, “She is not in the prophecy, her death.”, out of the light brown cotton hooded coat sleeves sprout drizzled dried up hands, reaching for the hood and removing it, revealing shoulder-length white curly hair. “Of course she isn’t, she is not important enough. Hello, King of Fire.”, the old female bows down, opaque green eyes and a yellow smile aimed at the jotun male, “You should know I don’t decide, I just know things.”, Laufeyjarson bows in response looking back yet with timid lips, there is little joy in acts of courtesy for this aesir, “You are the closest thing we have to Mimir in these never-ending days.”. The female laughs, then shakes her head and eventually nods in agreement. She rubs her hands together, looks up, “Mimir is not dead, so perhaps you should conjure him here since you are so powerful.”. This female is Frigg Nerthusjarson, mother of aesir, servant of aesir, the goddess of fatality. “So, how about it?”. Scarlet eyes stand still in her direction, a deep breath follows, the veins on the neck begin to jump, then it shows, Loki’s smile, “Is the slave trying to bargain?”, his body grows as his skin peels of like dust under gust, the sun dims until it fades into pure pitch, only his eyes shine any light as a giant skeleton remains in front of Frigg, everything else gone forever. “Save Röksva.”, the words chop her ears off, cannons firing inside her mind, the breath of the last breath of all things invades her lungs, a fire that will be the last light of the end then the primordial light of the next beginning roars in front of her, like a bright lion inside the black. Tears roll down, the aesir female holds 3/4 of a giant skull, leaning it against her forehead, one of the red eyes is gone, “You still like him the same way. So many abandoned him, so many.”. Reality slowly returns like the universe had woken up from a frantic dream, Donar looks at the entrance of the clearing, where a grassless path passes by it, and he sees Anika collapsed there. The act of walking from where the king ruler stands to where the body of his long-time servant lies feels curiously hard as if everything was off-balance, every molecule in every single thing that ever was. Alfödr’s firstborn places his priestess head over his lap, “Chaos is but a spark of a moment…”, the aesir male grabs some snow and places it with caution over her forehead, “… like a split decision…”, Anika opens her eyes then tears of happiness, of relief, allow themselves to show, she kisses her god’s hand, “… like anger…”, Odinson hugs the mansir female and perfect memories find him, memories of the one who feels like the daughter he keeps trying to have but never does, the girl who grows too fast and dies too soon, “… you are a moth with wings of fire…”, the pair walks towards the aesir elder who seems to speak to herself, “… you flap your wings too much.”. When the duo is closer they see the skull in Frigg’s arms, one eye staring at nothing, it seems like it contemplates so much the ears go deaf. “Come to me child, I can lead you through a new path and perhaps you can find your fortune there. What do you say?”, her wrinkled hand stands out towards the mansir female and it seems like it would be soft to the touch, like an ember that still kept some warmth after so much time burning up. “Isn’t it all coming to an end? I would be better off dead, wouldn’t I?”, Anika stares at the hand, waiting for it to withdraw, but it stays right there. “I am offering that you follow him until his last moments, and you leave together. And that is all I can offer.”, the mansir female’s hand does not move, she does not move, the words are not reaching her. “Why?”, tears start to flood her face, the question repeats as she moans in anguish, hugging the god she worshiped all her life. This is a woman given the task of mourning the entire world, of moving on after everything just disappeared, purpose, meaning, with maybe an answer that lies beyond, but she is not ready. “She is not in a place where she can decide. You know this happens, and yet you act the same? Just decide for her.”, Loki’s head is fully recovered except for his one eye that is missing and there is a hole instead. “Red king, understand once and for all. I am fate, I am the hand waiting, I am the floor waiting for the fall, I am the blood waiting for the metal gates of war, I am not the cause, you are. I am blue, I serve the blue.”, as Laufeyjarson readies his response Frigg interrupts him, “So why am I here right? Because you brought me here. Now she must choose.”, all the aesir now turn their eyes to the wailing priestess, a poor miserable servant who has not the time to process the death of everything she considered a life, love, happiness, companionship, consolation. “If you wish to get rid of the pain, step into Helheim with me. Come.”, the hand hangs out still, like an inevitable path, like the darkness that will surely come, always, so the hand of fate finds a grasp. Nerthusjarson touches the air, then it begins to vibrate like it was a droplet, first in one direction, and the more it vibrates the more it becomes like a sphere of vibrating air, vibrating light, vibrating space. Donar watches as his servant, his frail assistant, the kin with a hundred faces, a hundred names, the daughter, the mother, the granddaughter, step into Helheim and look at him while the world put its veil over her lovely eyes and she vanishes, a tear rolls out of his red eye and he lowers his head. “How about some help here?”, Donar looks and Loki, still just a head but now with a bone tail for a neck, has his face half into the snow and exactly the half with his good eye. “Now we find your daughter.”, the god of skies grabs Laufeyjarson’s head, holds it against his chest, and steps in thin air, as he stepped on an invisible surface, lifting his own body. Loki sees a blur where the sky should be, a zoom of wind goes so fast against his face it feels like nothing and everything at the same time. A yell breaks, the sky roars in response, consecutive noises, loud, heavy, the ground shakes so hard it is possible to feel it happening, finally, a seasoned smell overtakes the senses. A jotun female (18 ft / 5,48 m) with no hair on her body, night skin that shines under the smallest hint of light, sharp brown eyes, a tongue that constantly goes to one of her frontal teeth, a broken one. Her hand stretches and grabs the head of her father, their eyes meet, she stares at him with wide-open cannons of anger, meeting on the other side one eye that is tired but not of her. This is Jormungard, the World Serpent, carrier of the world poison, the disease man creates upon himself, the hunger that eats away on the minds, on the heart, the daughter of Loki, the last challenge to the sky, the one said to bring down the skies with her demise. “Leave me alone.”, this wasn’t how the next time they met was pictured, not in a million years, by any of them, “What happened to your tooth?”, in a split second Loki’s head finds the hands of his best friend again. “Bah!”, the ocean splashes all around them, the green floor contradicts the chilling sensation on the skin, in the air. The jotun female walks away, “When do you wanna do it?”, then she stops, turns around and her eyes meet the eye of the one the prophecy said would kill her. His smaller body didn’t seem small at all, his eyes didn’t seem unsure, no hesitation, that was an honest question. “Not yet.”, again the pair of aesir watches she turn her back and walk away, it felt like the words that could be said were also walking away, the air to carry them, their meaning, the wasted time, the lack of touch, the affection that was drying out, but perhaps was already gone. “I was going to offer to build her an army… I don’t know how to do that. The words fail me.”, the god of lies is held with both hands by the god of skies, and then the man with actual lack of words says, “She is already an army.”.

(Valkyrie’s Flight 10 -> Late June; Valkyrie’s Flight 11 -> Late December)

Looking up and wondering is a pair spinning in an inevitable dance. The weaker, further away lights shining inside the darkness raise questions like a mysterious neighbor, out and about, impossible to talk to. What came before? What about before that? What is the thing that came before all the other things? The world of Ymir plus those who created it had their answer, or at least a bitter one, maybe not complete but informative enough. The first three were not the absolute power of creation, worse than that, not even the one granted with the power of creation had absolute power. The god of creation could always and can only create, after that whatever was created had power upon itself. So creating or destroying meant only creating or destroying upon what was untouched. After a while, it was understood the actual absolute power was existing, not creating or destroying. The pursuit from that moment forward changed to usurping the one with power over what existed, a power belonging to an entity that was not a god. The power of each of the three pillars was, in a sense, the power over what existed. However, the power of deciding what exists belongs to the second pillar, the green, the Web weaver, the Spider. The first pillar disrupts the ether, the flow of reality, at the cost of consumption. That is how Lodur and Hœnir destroyed each other. After said destruction the power is inherited, when the next in line receives the power. It is believed the first pillars were the three sons of Fornjót, since the third pillar for as far as most folk remember is the daughter of Ægir, hence the granddaughter of Fornjót: Herja. The queen of blue had never been vanquished in battle, so much so the daughters of her power, the dis, the ghosts that gained flesh, valkyries, proved to be not a danger to the mad pursuit of dominance. What the blue does, the third pillar, is lead the existence to its end. Guidance. The one who desired to control absolute power over existence, although, did not inherit the title of Spider, after Four-Legs, the first one. Six-Legs became Mimir, then a few aeons after a plan was created to have his head, but even so, his death was not the plan, but his powerlessness as well as understanding the requirement of inheritance, of earning the power. It took a long time for the thirsty fool to finally understand that the requirement was merely a pure heart. The Spider must exist for the Web the same way a god of creation must exist for whatever grows from the creation and destruction to then eventually look up and wonder about the god’s works. If you will not spin the cycle, you are forbidden from it. Distant spotlights shine in complete darkness, complete silence. In every direction, there is a spot of light, some brighter, others just present, in a way light finds every angle of every floating rock. An old male stands on the tip of a long, flat rock drifting inside this immensurable emptiness, his mind also drifting. Irregular dark rock covered with chunks of rock, geometrical, sharp, polished as shattered rocks would be. The old figure stands small by the tip of a long, flat rock, the size of an island, but this island of sorts has more features that would catch an eye, aside from the fact an old male stands on it. The tip where the old male stands on is the most bewitching vision from a distance someone could hope to witness in life, because of the river-like streams connecting to the void, pouring into it. Three different streams of dense glowing smoke, with transparency as well as color, flowing along the rock with slow viscosity, converging into a single stream that spreads thin into the void, disappearing. This fantastical river has a source by the middle of the floating island, plus, from a distance it’s possible to see there are other beings and structures by the middle. The only sound around the old male is the distant vibration of the spotlights, like the distant sound of a roaring flame, or the close by rugging of air made by a fireplace. Clear white frizzy hair floats around, being guided by the least of movement. Dancing in the air, forearm length hair caresses a rugged face and meets a sigh that barely changes the direction of the dance. His beard barely moves, aside from some pieces of hair that refuse to keep in place. His left eye stares into the infinite darkness all around him, this eye is bright and untouched, yet around it, the skin is lacerated within that part of the face, runes carved along the cheekbone, along the nose bridge, finally along the shaved eyebrows closing a circle that captures the left eye while the right eye is missing with the eyelids sewn shut. There are no eyelashes to claim some charm or sympathy, the only hair on both eyes is on the right eyebrows, which are usually scratched with the tip of the index finger when in deep thought. The left eyelid shows light scars when shut, clearly runes carved with some form of magic. The left eye is half brown, half green, a black iris that expands in a second as if would swallow whatever it gazes upon. A big and long jewish nose, with a curve starting at the nasion, giving the impression the nose is projecting out of the face; wide nasal wings, pointy nose tip. This 2,10 m / 6,88 ft tall old-timer wears a peach linen tunic, gingerbread leather pants, and similar leather boots. He supports himself on a shear steel spear with ornamented wings, relief interlaced pattern engraved socket, guilford point, birch wood shaft. The wings split in two and the tips twist on each other. It is possible to see knot-like patterns on the blade, as well as an illusionary rune engraving along the blade’s spine on both sides. The wood shaft has black leather covering going around along the piece starting from the wings, held in place by glue and thumbtacks where the leather crosses itself. As this elder male takes a deep breath he changes his spear from the right to the left hand, rising the left hand from its hiding behind the black silk cloak, both hands wear different types of rings on every finger. He turns his palm upward bringing it close to his mouth where he has a glass pipe, fire comes out of his palm in an instant, then he puffs a smoke while keeping his lungs full for as long as he can, until he starts coughing and the white smoke shoots out like it was heavy, dissipating in the infinite pitch. On his left shoulder lies a hooded crow shrunk still, fluffing its feathers, then on the right shoulder lies a Eurasian jay scratching its chest with its beak. The hooded crow turns to the opposite side the old male stares at and leaps, landing as a dark-colored gray wolf, followed by the Eurasian jay which turns into a guara wolf. The gray wolf is Muninn, the physical form of memory, and the guara wolf is Huginn, the physical form of intention. Both wolves cry a delicate bark, to which the old man turns around, kneels, then puts his palm out for both animals to lick, they lick something out of his hand. This old man is Ódinn Bórrson, all-father, creator and master of the ansuz rune, servant of the Spider, father of heroes, master of poetry, keeper of the tale of war, keeper of the knowledge of ash, master of seid, master of hamr, master of hudr, master of minni, first völva of Asgard, the god of creation, and destruction. “Seems like ‘he ‘elp is rebellin alrigh’.”, Ódinn turns immediately with his spear pointed at the origin of that voice, when his eye meets the one standing still and smiling gold, the gray wolf approaches wagging its tail. A pale hand finds the huge canine, as well as a smiling face finds a big canine tongue, laughing. Golden teeth with a gap in the central superior incisors shine with joy, green eyes express endearment which is shared by the hands that rub the face and body of that once threatening beast. This female (1,62 cm/ 5,31 ft) has her smooth, spiraled cushion-like hair tied into a puff ponytail with a long elastic that just joins her hair more to the back of her head. Blonde hair and pale skin. She wears a striped open-shoulder papaya dress shirt, cinnamon stripes; fawn Bermuda shorts with a longbow around the waist, Sacramento kaleidoscope lace overlay trenchcoat, finally Alexandria metallic gladiator sandals with silver on the frontal tip, heel, and back; then leather on the front, back, along with the side straps, leather cushions on the insole, midsole and hard leather sole. This female is Skuld Mimirson, valkyrie commander, the recruiter of future hammingja. “Da wolf digs me, so why you keepin wi’h ‘he stranger danger ac’, old far’s?”, her green eyes look into his eye, seeing nothing, reading nothing, like staring at the eye of a corpse. Alfödr blinks, keeping his spear pointed at her, “A weapon obeys the gut, not the brain.”, to which the valkyrie searches for the big ear red wolf, but it disappeared. Bones together with joints crack, however sounding like muffled chimes, Mimirson moves her body, stretches several parts with fast movement, “I need you to ge’ ‘he niff ou’, All-Pisser.”. As she witnesses the words and their meaning brew inside the old man, she charges in his direction, running with long leaps, jumping, then landing a moon kick, kicking the spear blade in a downwards motion, it hits the rock floor, she steps on the spear as well as grabs the neck of the old man, kicking the spear away in the sequence. The god of creation reaches for her arm, in a lethargic fashion as it was all a waste of time, his fingers searching for specific places in her hand. As that creepy removal of her grasp progresses the old man schools her, “The footprints between the ash and the oak are lost on you. Your eyes see blurry, yet they are not adjusting.”, the moment Ódinn removes the valkyrie’s hand from his throat, the blade of the spear meets hers. Without moving away from the spear neither breaking the hold from her hand, the valkyrie stares at Bórrson with gold completely gone from her face, “Why don’’ you go fond a goa’ an’ chip us alone. There is a Ragnarok ‘o deal wi’h. Nobody wan’ you ‘ere.”. The Eurasian jay flutters his timid wind mess all the way from somewhere else and lands on the valkyrie’s shoulder. When the small crow’s toes touch the valkyrie she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then relaxes. The dead stare this complicated man was receiving faded to an easier exchange, then the spear withdraws plus the hands fall to peace. “If ‘ha’’s all you wan’, jus’ go.”, that said there are no smiles for the old man, only the wolf together with the small crow feel kindness from this lady of battle, as both animals follow her further up the stream of fantastical gaseous flow. Alfödr walks behind the valkyrie commander as they walk in absolute silence, only the rocks being kicked. The hooded crow rises in flight followed by the small Eurasian jay, circling in flight around the valkyrie along with the old man as they climb the irregular scenery of the edge of this floating rock. The gaseous flow of radiant smoke now scattered in three separate streams coils up and around the rock, patient, hush. Ponds of bright smoke form inside craters until it overflows, the canals seeming to result from the smoke interacting with the rock then destroying it. The destruction seems natural yet it follows a pattern. It either pursues an objective or draws away from its source. The relief of the floating rock is undulating, rising inch by inch, producing an experience without depletion of energy, however without depletion of the bore. The bitsy Eurasian jay plunges closer to one of the bright flowing canals of dense smoke then, unfortunately, it cries when the imperceptible high temperature of that curious substance flames the little creature’s toes. Each of the three gaseous flowing smoke streams tracks up to a hole in different spots, yet every single one seems to have the same origin. So, at last, the center of the floating rock is reached, the biggest crater in this place. Skuld together with Ódinn, side by side, step inside the rim, the highest point in the structure that outlines the circle of the original impact, then in an instant sound can be heard. Wind caressing leaves, treetops swinging around, whistling, finally the lowing of a cow. An observant eye would plunge along the massive crater floor which slowly fades from gray to green as bits of grass sprout out of the rugged rock. The sky changes from navy to celeste, reshaping the infinite view above to something worthy of tears. Bright giant spheres shine in the distance looking like a drop of molten metal, vibrant orange. Smaller circular rocks float along being exposed by the distant lights all over, hush as a mouse. The crater would seem like it was dug up for the purpose of observing the outside, wasn’t for the own piece of bizarre it treasures. Further down into the depressing relief it gets grassier, greener, and eventually golden. Trees in a circular pattern cover the distant eye to what lies in the center of this place, all kinds of plants thrive inside this place, along with insects and smaller creatures. Regular trees scatter alongside the middle distance from the rim to the center, then as close as it gets to the center, the trees fencing it become golden. Also the real circular structure of trees covering the view of what lies inside combines intertwined golden trees plus a colorful meadow, all of it reflecting blinding light to the outside. It is a grove of golden trees and regular oak trees, regular and golden flowers along the way, then at the center of the grove lies a pair of big old trees. An oak tree with a wide trunk spreading crooked branches in every direction, like a hand with multiple long broken fingers. Big boughs had stretched so far up over the aeons that the weight brought most down to crawl on the floor like snakes. Like an animal dragging on the floor, like a once conqueror of the skies with limbs reaching for the limitless beyond, the old oak paints this figure of shameful struggle for all to see. Next to the oak, a few feet from it, stands what was once named the ash tree, the magnificent marvel of the world of gods, made of gold, with a massive body along with boughs and branches rising up like flames, like lightning. Yggdrasil, “the best of trees”, “the tree of life”, some titles upon gazing at the tree would fill an observant eye with sarcasm. Now, looking at it, seeing the way the trunk is hollow, seeing the holes from where worms come out, the sunny metallic wood beetles flying around, the girdling roots. Even though the tree gleams as strong as ever, the obvious is hard to ignore. Branches of the oak tree meet with branches of the neighboring tree, intertwining together as if they held each other. The space between the two ancient trees is a deep pond of colorful smoke that constantly rises up and down like a convection current, giving the impression the underground is swirling the flowing gas. A pair of red eyes wait to be noticed as Alfödr aims for the ash tree, red eyes jam-packed together on the face surrounded by wrinkled skin, strong brow bone that creates a grim expression like the eyes of a dead man. Protruding ears, big for that head, then on the left one a golden flower from a flowering ash bouquet hangs on the ear, like an earring. Nose with a triangular shape, the nostrils seem to expand more and more. The face of this old male has no expression now, but his skin shows which way his expressions would show, each and every one. Serious mouth, no cheekbones, protruding lower jaw that throws the chin forward, putting the inferior teeth at display even when resting the face. Short cloud hair, white plus light, everywhere on the head, a mess as well as a contrasting image with that constantly dirty face. Dirty hands stick out of a green silk robe, the left hand supports a little rabbit, that feels huge compared to this Lilliputian (1,21 m / 3,96 ft) geezer, while the jittery right hand caresses the creature. Even from a distance, it is possible to measure the physical threat this tiny male possesses, by his posture plus the aspect of his skin and muscles, hard as rocks. He wears a green silk hooded cloak, charcoal wool sleeveless long tunic together with leather sandals. This nidavell is Ivaldi, the first nidavell king, the first king of Nibelungen, master of blood and fog, Erilaz (runemaster), brother-in-arms of the first dragon, servant of the Spider, head of the Thing of all Gods, the lord elemental wielder of all unliving things. Outside of the grove of trees, there are several stacks of rocks, flat rocks stacked in piles from the larger to smaller, all around the circle of trees. There is a morbid chill in the air as the mere presence of Ódinn in his place seems to create a disturbance, with the main indication of that being the stacked rocks all falling without being touched. Red eyes lock onto the father of gods, a strong air shockwave projects from the old nidavell’s body, whooshing past the scenery, hitting the all-father, crushing him, lifting him up. “Utangard-Ódinn (Outlaw Ódinn), step away from Hörgr.”, Bórrson is carried by the aerial grasp and put outside the circle of golden trees. Although the pain was clear on his face, Ódinn did not hear one syllable of those words for his eyes locked on the image floating high up, a golden head as well as a golden tail-like thing connected to the head. Gazing from between the trees in the golden circle, outside its limits, the image of his son was clear on his mind, so when his eye adjusted to the light in this place, he saw it. A Gjermundbu helmet made of gold, with two separate pieces shaping the visor, a dome shape for the helmet, and shoulder-length chainmail going around the back. The thing that resembled the spinal cord of the white aesir is in fact a golden chain flail with a spiked cylindrical hammer. The two floating arsenal pieces begin to descend near a round wheat field, out of the tree grove, opposite from where Bórrson and Mimirson came from, then out of the wheat field comes a person. A pale person (1,58 m / 5,18 ft), not clear if it is a male of a female, with clear blue eyes, white hair styled in a mullet mohawk going along the back of the neck, long nose with hanging columella, mouth with a full upper lip and golden teeth. This person has a full row of teeth, the central plus lateral maxillary upper incisors have bilateral fusion and are wide, but between the fused incisors and the canines, on each side, plus on the upper row as well as on the lower row, there is a second canine coming out of the gums, pointier, longer. Four golden canines clawing out of the gums. They wear a green silk mini cape, golden cropped shirt, golden waist fitted bermuda shorts, both clothing pieces made from Yggdrasil’s leaves, and light grey vaquero boots. They also carry a golden leaf bag, with a modest size, hanging on their back. This pale one is Tusk, servant of Ivaldi and the tribunal of Ygg. Their hairless skin glows as they move with grace and energy. They put the wheatgrass on the floor, tie the grass tightly together, raise one hand that finds the golden flail, and they start hitting the grass of wheat with the flail, swinging the cylindrical hammer without difficulty. The cylindrical hammer is the size of their forearm, as well as the handle. Wheat grains fall on the dirt, this pale figure whistles long notes while giving light hits to the grass, only aiming at separating the seeds from the grass. After a while they gather the seeds, putting those inside the golden floating helmet, now floating upside down, also grabbing the wheatgrass. The first nidavell king approaches this pale one, with a jug of water plus a bag of salt floating behind him. Ivaldi then commands the dirt stuck on the grains of wheat out of the helmet. Both leave the grove, leaving the valkyrie alone with the father of gods. “Ge’ in ‘ere quickly so you can chip already.”, Skuld sits in front of the pair of old trees, Alfödr springs his step toward the golden ash tree, the Eurasian jay flies around and keeps an eye on the small fella, the grey wolf rests his big head on the valkyrie’s lap. Ódinn notices the inside of the hollow ash tree glows in a hue of blue, so he reaches in and rips off a chunk of metallic blue inner bark. Then the father of all examines the piece, the size, shape, nodding in silence. With a similar spring to the step, Bórrson walks back the way he came in, placing the inner bark on the floor as he chants words, whispering to the blue metal. The piece of the inner bark is the size of a dagger, beautiful bright blue that begins to shake and shake, twisting, swirling until it becomes clear what new form has been taken. The blue metal becomes a solid metallic square stick bar, then it begins to twist on itself as well as stretching a bit, forming a tip, then on the other direction, it forms a handle with a more rugged surface for holding and a sphere on the end of the handle. Ódinn holds a blue metallic wand in one hand, and a spear in the other hand, then the wand rings a high pitch, the spear points up. A huge golden eagle (1,42 m / 4,75 ft tall; 2,74 m / 8,98 ft wingspan) lands in front of the father of runes, with white feathers all over its body, except for the feathers on the primary and secondary flight feathers on the underwing, which are black. It has a golden beak, golden talons, long legs, and hazel eyes. This is Hábrók, “Long legs”, the best of eagles. A flame snaps, a wide circular stove has fire raging further in, with wood trays filled with baked bread close to the opening. Tusk reaches for the trays while Ivaldi puts the water inside a bigger container and the bag of salt on top of other bags. The first king locks eyes with a big wide eye, then a lowing is heard. The nidavell approaches a cow strapped into a grain milling equipment, she licks his face and he kisses her head, smiling. The first king unstraps the cow, then watches as she runs to the grove where there is grass. After a long sigh, Ivaldi turns to Tusk who stores pieces of bread inside their golden leaf bag. “This is important, ok? Did you eat?”, the pale one smiles gold and pulls out of their bag a small cage filled with golden beetles walking around it. “Oh! Can I have one?”, the reticent endless becomes the scenery of this moment of munching side by side, a moment which has repeated so many times, but never after the horn. After training, after practicing, after chores, they had each other for a long time with no interruptions, no problems. Cornered by the imminence of their obligations, these two who made each other into father and child now feel the only thing made of gold are the things they can only but remember. Tusk touches the old man’s face, knowing he cannot cry, so they won’t, then after swallowing the brittle remains of the beetle they smile. “Why don’t you come to train him with me? He will listen to you. It can be our goodbye.”, the red eyes shake lightly as Ivaldi takes a deep breath. “Well, some mushrooms for the stew would be nice.”, Tusk jumps up with the biggest blue eyes. Ódinn stands still as the eagle keeps its eye on him, then he feels something wet on his hand. The cow licks his hand, to which he responds conjuring salt crystals from the palm of his hand. Bórrson is startled by the sudden high squeaks Hábrók begins throwing out as it flaps its wings and falls around, scared. A thick white mist begins to form out of nowhere around the majestic bird’s head, then Älfodr witnesses the unbreakable rune being destroyed from the bird’s mind. “Long legs, be free. Heimdall needs you.”, Ivaldi’s hand stretches out, shaking, and as his fingers withdraw inside his fist, the fog disappears. Red lights up, Ivaldi kneels down, then a rabbit jumps to his hands. The pale valkyrie sits on the top of a tree from the grove limits, chewing a leaf, with animals of all kinds crawling around her, as she responds to the ruby stare with a nod. The father of runes draws staves in thin air with his bloody wand with such speed it is impossible to predict the effect, from the front of his face to the floor, and that spot where it was drawn, begins to distort. Tusk puts their helmet on, holds on to Ivaldi’s hand, and smiles with the wind caressing their white hair. The best of eagles lands on the golden tree, releasing a big call, like a general goodbye, or thank you. In the next instant, the recruiter of future hammingja sits alone in this place. After a deep breath, her deathlike hands find her chest, her buttocks, her hair, and her sex. She undresses piece by piece, with eyes closed, finding a suggestive enough branch with her foot and rubbing her toes on it. Fully naked, she is ready to go, licks her fingers, but she hears a sound, looking at its origin. When she sees who it is she starts laughing quietly, then she bites her lips, “Da god ov bloody ‘imin.”.

A twitch of the head and a snort, then the eyes open, a pair of ruby gems gaze around hidden by the narrow eyelids that cover half the iris. Sharp eyes, maybe suggesting this one is very well adapted to being outside, to hunting, to facing the sunlight. Darkness, the sound of breathing mixes up with weird chirping, weird bird singing, and weird night creature eyes. Tiny lights blinking, blocks of blinking light, a few metal tables in the middle, some of those with dead mansir bodies over them. Air sneaks into the nose, low long bridge, timid tip, big round nostrils, as the red eyes peek from behind the upper eyelid, scanning the surroundings. The next information was what the ears caught when this male woke up: an echo. It is quiet, every now and then there are echoes from the outside, footsteps, metal doors slamming, and other noises hard to interpret. The ceiling is not visible, the walls stretch up and up. A blue silhouette fades in from invisibility, transparent yet not floating. It is a very tall Persian man (1,89 m / 6,2 ft) wearing a plain white keffiyeh wrapped around his head, covering his ears and neck; big black beard and mustache, green eyes, on his mouth there is khat filling his right cheek also there is a chibouk pipe sticking out leaning opposite to the filled cheek, orange linen long-sleeved shirt plus linen pants, light red big coat of pangolin scales, leather shoes then, finally, a falcata sword with a golden handle in a “C” shape where the pommel ending resembles a horse head, the middle of the handle has an ivory grip, and the other end becomes the guard for the blade. The single-edged blade pinches forward, with the edge being concave near the hilt, but convex near the point. The sheath is made of dark brown leather. This warrior is Jasper, the fylgja (follower) of the next nidavell king, under his service until his death. Jasper doesn’t have his sword out, he looks around but awaits for command. The barely awake male needs some time still. His memory is normal, the dizziness seems to affect his stomach and his head, similar to a hangover. The palms of his hand move, as the finger stretch away from them, then the wrists attempt to rotate the palm in any direction possible but it’s hard. Something holds the wrists in place, but it is not made of metal, different from the smooth and cold surface he rests upon. There is only one other like him in this place, that is what his power tells him. A winning smile appears when the feeling of the power he wields flows like usual, as well as his hands panning around until a heartbeat pulls the palm towards it, in the proximity. Clean hands, glowing square fingernails, painted black, on both his middle fingers there are beautiful rings crafted with polished marquise cut diamonds and engraved with what looks like a very strong and punctual heat source. On his left index finger, he wears a black metal finger claw ring, the ring fits on the proximal phalanx as it should, and most of this phalanx is covered by metal resembling an armor piece for the finger, next on the middle phalanx the armor piece splits into a pair connecting along without a ring around for better flexibility of that piece, finally, a metal claw links to the armor on the distal phalanx, metal going around the tip of the finger in the shape of a funnel, creating a sharp metal claw. His hair is black, appearing to be medium length, but actually is messy with several ends sticking out like long leaves in a bush. Dark gray wool hanbok, light gray cotton striped harem pants, thong sandals with strap and insole made of dark brown leather plus a midsole and sole made of wood with some material to it, flat heels that rise this male up a few inches (1,33 m / 4.36 ft). This nidavell is Ivar, named after the mansir warrior who shared his brittle bone disease, son of Eitri, grandson of Ivaldi, the first king; next in line for the crown as it would be noticeable by the fact he wears the ring of Nibelungen, master of blood and fog, the lord elemental wielder of all living things. The nidavell lies on a medical tilting bed made of metal, now in a 45-degree angle allowing the perfect vision of the big room he’s in, also a perfect vision of the other nidavell in the darkness further to the other corner of the room. There are no other nidavell in this place, so they either escaped or are being tortured, or dead. His palm rises towards the distant kin under the pitch veil, with equal harmony as he breathes the small male far away inhales and opens his eyes. A loud sniff is heard, next the abrupt movement gets caught in the leather handcuffs, then silence in the darkness. Ivar rests his head on the cold table he is strapped to, while the palms of his hands casually move around to sense any new undesired company, finally, a nidavell materializes in front of him. He is naked (1,38 m / 4,52 ft), however, no skin is visible for his body is covered in curly blonde hair, from the top of his head to the sole of his feet (hypertrichosis). His eyes focus on his companion, his ears flap as if every sound was being picked up, as well as his nose would inhale from time to time to be sure nothing new was around. He is Löwe, master of fylgur, master of hamr, son of the shame of Nidavellir, King Alberich; the brother-in-arms of Ivar, and lord elemental smithy of all living things. His brown eyes squint when a smile forms, “Thanks. What do we do now?”. The restrained nidavell gives his kin an intimate smile, one that carries particular meaning, like a code, then the woolly nidavell casually mimics the smile he sees, becoming black in a flash, twitching, exploding into bits that buzz, finally revealing a swarm of flies spreading everywhere. When the flies are gone, Ivar turns his eye to Jasper, “Valkyries?”, the silhouette shakes his head in a negative, releasing smoke, cleaning his pipe with his crude hairy hands, next he puts the pipe away then adds some more khat leaves to his mouth. “Find us an exit.”, so the glasslike warrior walks around with a hand rested on the handle of his sword until he goes through a wall. Jasper’s eyes catch the glimpse of a woman as he crosses a wall, he stops to watch her go, then he carries on with his search. The female walks surrounded by other people, all of them wear black suits, strangely all others clearly have holsters for firearms, but she doesn’t. Her eyes don’t adjust by just changing the iris size, but actually change the shape, or the type of eye, to adjust. Changing for an eye of an animal which would see better in the dark, and changing back to mansir eyes if an exchange of words would be needed. This female (1,55 m / 5,08 ft) has medium-length black hair with highlights, has light brown skin, a Nubian nose, strong cheekbones, fat lips, bright smile. She is Rigseida, a special agent of the strongest country in Midgard, Panama. Rigseida goes through a double door, entering a meeting room with a long table and several chairs, at the other end of the long table there is a circle with a drawing and letters where it reads ‘Agência Brasileira de Inteligência’, and sitting on the chair closer to the logo there is a mansir male. Black hair with hints of white, cut in a short classical cut, not well kept; square face with a big jaw, winning smile that rarely shows, big nose with a curved bridge, round tip, brown eyes, small clumsy hands, and feet that stick in opposite directions as he walks around. Before anything can be said, the male (1,76 m / 5,77 ft) rises from his chair at the further end of the table then approaches Rigseida, pulling out his badge and showing it from under the black leather cover. The coat of arms of ABIN is the same as the one on the wall to his back, but metallic. Everyone else fights the urge to smile as the male looks at them in the dumbest way, “It is my honor to work with a decorated agent from the most powerful and technological country of the modern world. I am the chief of field operations at ABIN. You can call me Nogueira.”. A handshake sparks a positive view for the Panamanian agent towards this dim-witted male. A strong handshake, and in the end it’s the work that really counts, something she knows for a fact. After the handshake, they exchange a smile, after which the female agent strolls over to the computer in the meeting room and presses two fingers against it. Her eyes now flicker several colored lights along with shapes, the lights on the computer oscillate and the cooler begins spinning. A window of light appears on the white wall, the projector has been turned on, next several pictures show, repeating. “There has been a series of incidents, one after another for some time now, and the possible origin of it all, or the first incident at least, involves the truck that was stopped a few weeks ago. Inside that truck, there were some curious people, two of which escaped according to our intelligence exchange, however, two others remain in your captivity, right here. Is that info correct, Nogueira?”. Nogueira nods, “Very correct. We had them under sedatives but we cut them after you guys messaged. They should be ready for questioning now.”. Rigseida touches the computer again, her eyes flicker bright colors, her expression gets serious. “You don’t have surveillance on them?”, Nogueira gets scrunched all over his face, “Why would we need surveillance? Those guys are unarmed and wouldn’t possibly be able to go through a guard.”. Rigseida sprints into a fast walk, “Officer, I do not believe those guys… as you put… are normal guys.”. Nogueira runs after her openly upset, “Hey, Officer, they are called little people. Saying they are not normal is not cool.”, Rigseida turns and their faces rush into each other since Nogueira was running after her, and they almost kiss, which she doesn’t mind, on the contrary, the closer her red face full of veins is, the better the message will be received, “That is not what I meant, you moron! Jesus Cristo!”. Both agents enter the elevator, Nogueira yells “Lock all exits. Bring out lethal ammo.”, after which he reaches for the buttons but Rigseida just hits the one he would hit, then as the door closes both agents notice several flies on the ceiling, near the lights. Dead air fills the elevator, no music plays, the Brazilian agent pulls out his gun, checks the ammo, and the safety. “Your ventilation must be pretty bad, huh? Or is it the time of the year? Rain season?”, the female agent relaxes and smiles, “Our ventilation is top-notch actually. Ha ha ha. If you can believe that. I believe now it’s the drought season, which is weird because last year-”, the Brazilian agent is interrupted as Rigseida signals that he stops with her hand. The flies crawl over and around each other and begin pulsating. “These flies are showing on thermal, and flies don’t show on thermal.”. As soon as Nogueira points his pistol at the blob of flies it morphs into a black snake then it leaps at him with its fangs out. Rigseida jumps in front of the Brazilian agent, pulling him down by the arm. The ABIN agent watches as the snake bites his companion on the neck, and in the next instant, the snake is shocked with electricity, falling on the floor. Rigseida kneels to examine this creature as her skin begins to sweat and the wound on her neck closes itself, her eyes showing shapes as well as colors while she stares at the snake. “What?!”, the female agent yells as she witnesses the creature disappearing in front of her, skin, muscle, bone, as it was dissolving in thin air. The elevator door opens, Rigseida signals Nogueira to follow and runs. The king-to-be rests his head on the metal bed, finally defeated by boredom, staring at the ceiling when a figure appears in front of him, the red-haired god. Ivar feels engulfed in amusement, “What say you, god of time?”, so the god of time locks eyes with him, turns to his back, and points his finger in accusation, “This one came for your crown! Stop him!”, vanishing after that. The amusement drains away inside an abyss of pure puzzlement, yet the brittle bone nidavell feels he must keep this information close and reflect on its meaning. “Psst.”, Jasper is by the metal bed further away and signals at the corpse, the wielder of living things understands the message. When the palms of the wielder of power under the living points at the dead mansir at the table, the same dead mansir begins shaking and spasming. Jasper lies down at the table then he closes his eyes, fading away, after that the corpse opens his eyes, moving slowly. Flies begin to return to the room while the cut-up cadaver limps towards a switch in a control panel, grabs it then- Bang! Brain plus skull bits cover the hand as it grabs the lever anyway and pulls it. During the time the hatch up on the ceiling begins to open and let the midday sun flood the room, Nogueira wanders in thought contemplating the dead man who just raised from the table and pulled a lever. “Why did I think shooting it in the head would stop it? I should have shot it in the leg, or in the arm, destroying the joints. Gotta remember that.”, Rigseida signals to her companion agent but he is scratching his chin thinking about whatever, so she runs at the corpse and attacks it. Light floods the room as well as the sound of blades spinning far up the big air shaft. The chill sensation of clinical death is bit by bit leaving the yellow-lit room in the biology lab, both by the sunlight and by the roundhouse kick that sends a corpse head flying at the wall. Ivar watches this female with his crimson stare until Jasper fades into his sight, pointing up. “Brother! Where are you? We are leaving!”, black buzzing spots spiral into a point becoming a blob of blackness that transforms into Löwe. “Oh no you’re not!”, Rigseida’s skin changes to jaguar skin patterns and she jumps at them, but Löwe grabs Ivar, both smiling, and they explode into a flock of birds, flying up. “The hatch, Nogueira!”, the Brazilian agent examines the joints of the corpse to determine where a bullet would deal the most damage, then quickly snaps out of it upon hearing his colleague, going for the lever and pushing it. It is too late. There are only the echoes of chirping and light flapping filling this room now. “It seems we lost all of them.”, Nogueira looks to the floor, ashamed. “We can pick up on their trail pretty easy.”, Rigseida examines the metal table Ivar was on, “I’m not sure I’ve got a piece of him in my system, but I’m pretty sure there is a bit of me with him. I think we can track them this way.”. The fluttering of wings echoes along inside the ventilation system, catching the attention of all employees, a zooming noise of birds. Metal clangs and morph along the ventilation canals, rising up on the floors of this building, rushing out of it. Finally, the feathery noise floods the green scenery, a cloud of turbulent tweets flows away from the concrete structures, shooting out of holes on the rock, scattering between the trees. Dense woods with tall trees stretch along with the tall sun, protecting the wilderness of its floors with perpetual shade. An electric charge sparks and spreads throughout the flock of birds, pulling the migration in the direction to safety to a halt. The game of flying creatures becomes black, then the black mass concentrates on two spots with violence, returning the nidavell to their original forms in mid-air. A cry of agony erupts after the king-to-be hits the floor, breaking several bones at once. The son of Alberich is out, laying down shaking a little for the electricity that persists on his body. Out of thin air, Tusk together with Ivaldi appear in front of the pair, the cloudy red eyes have not a slight suggestion of concern for his youngster. The pale one begins crawling on all fours, helmet in place, then their green mini cape begins expanding, the green cloth becomes heavy, mimicking relief covered in slime, also covering their pale skin that denounces every attempt of hiding. Ivar calms down now he sees known faces close to him at an hour like this, watching his grandfather kneel close to his brother-in-arms to check on him. “Why are you here?”, the bearer of the ring of Nibelungen inquires between grunts of pain, holding his purple limbs with care. His grandfather caresses the big ears of a rabbit, smiling a bit, “Oh, you don’t know? Heimdall finally did his thing, with the thing. Don’t remember the name anymore.”. And with that said, a brown stone shield fades in from invisibility then bolts to one side, tearing a rip on reality itself, with some unfortunate ones falling from this impossible hole. Two valkyries, two aesir, and one mansir carrying the god slayer. Those five ones fall from a considerable height, only the women manage to land with any visible grace. Ivaldi then starts laughing and looks at a spot in thin air, “Jasper, it seems you joined the right king.”.

Muffled crunches, one after the other, the wind forces itself on the surroundings, light snappings are heard, the flapping of fabric ends. Pieces of leather fly with charm upward into the black sky, reaching a point where the winds die out, further down in the lower taiga. Pine trees cluster along the subtle ascend as the snow piles up, almost like a warning for those who keep climbing. Footsteps insist on breaking the silence that tries to install in this dead scenery, red eyes scan more and more the white floor, the trees, the sky; a dark-skinned body completely naked (9,8 ft \ 2,98 m) wanders in the night, face welcoming the moonlight, body shivering with either cold or excitement, or both, feet latching as long as possible to the ground, red eyes wishing for a prey. Not out of hunger, but out of boredom, hunger is a far gone feeling for this male, perhaps the first one to go. One feeling that keeps the eyes searching however is the feeling of adrenaline. The plunge into the cold abyss of the night is when this one truly feels alive, the moment where his nostrils pull and air finally enters, it is the second after so many pumps from the heart upon which red flows once more. The infinite spin of days and nights had blurred what routine could have been in the past, now only the foot forward right after the last foot is what remains. The white exhale from the thick lips brings a shine to the red eyes, as the breath was being drawn again, the Nubian nose, with a thick straight bridge and timid nostrils, pulls air as the air had a long-forgotten taste, then a big smile forms. Shaved head, chin curtain beard, ears with big antihelix, oblong face. Hairy chest, a somewhat muscular endomorph body, no visible dominant side while walking with alertness to combat being the first thing in mind, which would denounce to an observant opponent this male is ambidextrous. This male is Loki Laufeyjarson, a former member of aesir, one of the gods who witnessed the build of the known worlds, the one who inherited and carries the power of Lodur, the first pillar, the king of red; the god of lies. His footsteps on the snow are denouncing, which might mean he doesn’t want to hunt but to be hunted. His giant figure with bloodshot eyes ends up scaring away most possible predators, but maybe a predator like him would not feel intimidated. Part of the desire to be hunted, to be found, relies on some amount of guilt, desire to be punished, hurt. Hatred born out of the failure to show love, hatred of the lie he chose to believe. The irony is what still brings a smile, is what taught him the ultimate joy. Going along without purpose doesn’t mean purpose is not there, still, the act of hoping, planning, and handling what matters with care is not enough, or even necessary. Some wounds, for more ugly and old might just require that you treat them, and that is that. The imaginary wound, however, the wound you believe you caused, can be a wound one never heals. Believing your own lie is what can create your personal torture. The shivering cold is nice, the silence, a moment where no words are needed, so no words can ruin it. Talking with the ones you hate is so simple, like swinging a giant weapon around, no worries, no restraint, just do whatever. Measuring the words together with actions feels idiotic. But if he doesn’t, if Loki doesn’t, then why did he try to destroy everything? Hatred cannot be without a reason. No war can happen without at least an excuse, at least a lie, something made up. Loki now needs to build up the reason why he is going against everyone, he needs to. All of a sudden, there is a touch on his shoulder, he turns to face a taller figure (15 ft / 4,57 m) with breaking skin, exposed flesh, and bones, maggots falling out of the open insides. It is a female, dark-skinned as well, her nose is just the hole in the skull barely covered with skin, bald head with scattered threads of hair, closed mouth with blisters and pieces missing, rotten teeth showing, and eyes missing, just the holes of the skull where the eyes would be with two flames lit inside of them. This is Embla, goddess of life and death, the double personality of Hel Lokijarson. The red eyes stare into the flames, her arm lifts in a delicate pace, then her finger points to a direction in the forest. “I know where he is. Who do you think I am?”, there is no anger in the words, this father addresses his daughter with a casual tone, also his eyes meet the flames until the end of the words, after which he retreats his stare. Embla points the open palm of her hand to a specific direction further inside the taiga forest, the snow begins melting and flames rise, spreading in a line reaching to the direction where the goddess points at. “I don’t want to force him to talk to me.”, her hand then finds his face, his eyes shake, “He needs your help with something, father.”, her mouth doesn’t move as the words come out, it feels the words Loki hears are a fruit of his imagination while the two flames dance from side to side. Loki grabs her hand and kisses it, yellow creamy pus as well as twitching maggots fall from it. When Laufeyjarson raises his head his daughter is gone, ashes dance with the wind in front of him. “She is free. That means Jormungard is also…”, the thought pulsates all over the veins on his forehead, the idea of confronting the further away of his children. The god of lies believes it needs to happen, he needs to see what they feel, it needs to be in front of his eyes instead of brimming deep in the cauldron of his coward heart. Laufeyjarson is removed from his train of thought by a shaking impact and trees crashing into the forest, wreaking mild havoc. Lands in front of him, a huge male (14,8 ft / 4,48 m) with a hairy dark-skinned body, very strong limbs, muscle lines become visible under the moonlight, long beard, and hair like a shrub. A lion nose, with a triangular shape, with nostrils as wide as the bridge bone, and a round tip. Big upturned red eyes under thick eyebrows, resulting in an intimidating stare. Heart-shaped lips with a pink lower lip. Big feet and hands with long fingers as well as long nails. This jotun man wears a simple leather sleeveless shirt and leather pants, both seeming to have been sewn by hand pretty recently. This is Fenris Lokijarson, the monster of the pit, wolf berserker, one of two said to have inherited Hrungnir’s legacy. As the wolf shapeshifter stands, Loki looks at the moon with a heart rate that makes Fenris think of his last victim. Silence sits around for a few minutes. A long sigh is heard. “You know, sometimes I can sense when a mind pictures me, my hudr can find those who think of me. Sometimes.”, Loki crouches, his hand reaches for the snow, he feels it, crushes it. “When that happens… would you know what the one thinking of you… wants?”, Fenris looks at his father, his body is relaxed, the monster’s eyes search for the god’s eyes. The god of lies lets out a laugh, “No.”, he rises from the ground and stares back, “You need to tell me what you want. Otherwise, I can’t… do something about it.”. “Can’t you just look into my eyes and find out?”, Fenris asks as he shrugs, Loki’s smile tears his face open, then his face returns to a neutral expression, “I don’t want to invade your mind. Tell me. It’s ok.”. Fenris’ stare doesn’t have a blink, a recovery of breath, it is heavy, but Loki stares back and waits. “I want a legacy.”, the god of lies squints his eyes as he was trying to see the meaning behind those blurred words, “You want to build a kingdom? To kill a valkyrie? Write your story on a wall?”, Fenris looks down as he listens, shaking his head from side to side, “No. I want a child.”. “What?!”, Laufeyjarson walks around in the snow, catching himself on the trees close by, his eyes dancing around, his breathing suddenly choppy. “Why? What is the point of that? Do you even understand what your legacy is?”, Loki shakes his head and swings wild gesticulation at nothing, at the trees, never looking at his son. The wolf berserker sits on the snow and rests his back in a tree, “What do you mean?”, his father immediately responds, shaking his hands around, “What do I mean? I’ll tell you what I mean. Your child will never be free. You are utangard, you are not considered relevant, in any way. This child will be born into a war they never chose. And guess who they will be? They will be the enemy! Don’t be dumb.”. Lokijarson takes a deep breath and shakes his head, “You don’t know that.”, only the footsteps in the snow break the silence, his father walks to the front of his son. “Son, stand up.”, red meets red, Fenris stands up with a serious expression, his father is upset, “I don’t know that. I don’t know that?! Wow.”. Big hands with long sharp nails reach for the shoulder of a smaller male, who walks away, “Just tell me how I can help and I’ll do it.”, Loki cannot look at him anymore. “Take me to where Skadi is. I’ll ask her.”, Fenris stares as his father snaps his fingers, followed by a vision that would scare most as his hands instantly become skull hands. The flesh dissolves, the muscle tissue goes after, then the nerves and veins, only bones remaining. Pure muscle is visible on the beginning of the jotun god’s forearm, he moves his hands as if nothing was off. From one second to the next the king of red is now wearing a sleeveless chainmail shirt, black leather pants, and a pair of black boots with a metal sole and tip. “We’re going.”, Loki gives his child a frail look, his skull-like hands point to the black sky, Fenris doesn’t think about how his father feels now, the only thing in his mind is Skadi’s face and her words. Black stone walls, high ceiling, distant echoes further into the long corridor, one room has some light and some color: the garden. A female (4,06 m / 13,3 ft), brown hair in a long bob straight cut, brown eyes, milky skin that allowed to see the green veins on her neck, hands, etc; athletic body covered only in a white silk tunic, the jotun female looks at her weapon, a metal longbow (2,65 m / 8,69 ft) with several tools around it. Snowshoe, the jotun female, sits on the grass floor while she stretches her metal bow, adding lubricants plus new parts to it, then she screams. A skeleton wearing chainmail, leather pants, and leather boots appears out of nowhere, then only after few seconds Skadi notices Fenris is also there. Laufeyjarson begins regenerating his tissues from the closer ones to the bone to the more distant ones, Lokijarson kneels in front of Skadi and holds her hand. The gentle touch of this physical interaction steals the female jotun’s attention. Nerthusjarson notices how the red eyes of the wolf berserker try to steal a gaze on her body, her neck, her curves, so her eyes and breathing gather up on the intensity. Fenris takes a deep breath. It feels like the hardest thing in the world not kissing the female in front of him, not tearing open her clothing then feasting on the banquet that is her beautiful body. “Long time no see. I have a thing to ask of you.”, the female aesir’s eyes meet not the eyes of a monster, but the eyes of a man, also upon hearing his words Skadi blushes at the idea of being chosen for something, so she smiles and squeezes the hand of the wolf berserker, “What is it?”. The son of Loki smiles at the possibility that there might be a survivor to his twilight. As the jotun couple talks, the god of lies wanders inside the castle as his body heals like the wound he believes he caused maybe never does. This castle was the place he called home for the longest time, where he grew from the boy who was the god of lies to the man that received the crown of Lodur. Then, at the end of a corridor, he sees the red silhouette of a pre-teen boy, walking towards him. A shirtless boy ( 1,15 m / 3,77 ft) with long black hair, wearing dirty long linen pants, barefoot. Laufeyjarson’s red eyes meet some similar red eyes when he kneels down to stare at the young ghost. This young boy is the ghost of Lodur Bórrson, father of sorcery, father of völvas, master of galdrar, master of seid, the former king of red, and god of protection. “It is decided. You tricked her.”, the kid punches the jotun male on his face, jokingly, Loki only gazed back. “It’s a few weeks until she finds out! Aren’t you excited?”. This moment filled the night-skinned giant with nostalgia, the opposite image filled his mind. An adult and annoyed Lodur entertaining a young and energetic Loki, like siblings cut apart, like weird opposites with a synonymous fate. “You were on quite the vacation. Why are you back? Think I missed you? Not at all.”, Lodur then gave Loki the familiar disgusted look, the god of lies then smiled, “I am just savoring the irony of this conversation, Loki. You will have your smile, then I’ll have mine.”. A vein on the jotun’s forehead was now showing, pulsating in a frenzy, “You did something. That is new.”, the kid bows down, raises his head, and laughs, “I un-did something, but you will know when it’s time.”. The god of lies sighs, “You sure enjoy tormenting me.”, upon hearing that Lodur gets serious, “I am doing what needs be done so you see the truth.”. Loki stands up and walks towards the door at the end of the hallway, “To niff with the truth! You can put the truth on a boat and set it on fire.”. Crossing the black stone door, the first pillar finds himself on a big balcony, the crimson veil of the ghost child by the door gently disappears. Loki has lost his voice, his red eyes shake, and tears flood his eyes upon seeing an incomplete version of his best friend, “Hello, Odinson.”.

The charcoal gas begins to unveil a figure that fades into darkness as the blue eyes close, erasing everything into a hush, only but a deep breath disturbs the void as it was someone just standing in front of their home after a long time away. When the god of time opens his eyes he is in front of himself, and his other version wears a complete set of shiny silver armor with a black furry cape along with green wool clothing underneath. On the back of the hip, the armored Baldur keeps a seax knife sheathed sideways, with the hilt to his left side. This other son of Odin is on the floor pushing himself against the bed stand, terrified, opposing him is the naked Baldur resting his back against a mirror. The mirror covers the entirety of the wall in height and is some feet wide, the frame of the mirror is made from white wood and carved in jelling style. White naked skin shrinks together shivering on the black stone floor, a large room with tall well-decorated furniture, red petals beside spilled blood on white silk sheets, white and purple stains wherever the eye can see, the room of a god. “You know, I always wondered why I had such a sad face. Pain.”, Odinson mumbles to himself, almost in tears. “Niff! Are you me? Why are you naked?”, his other version screams staring from where he sits, next he arches forward, kneels with a worried face, leaning in. “Are you ok? Am… I ok? This is weird.”. “Do you have something, but not green?”, leaves stick out of the trembling chest of this aesir as he rubs his naked body with his hands, “Uh, take something you like.”, with that said Baldur smiles and laughs, his teeth tap dancing in the frosty air floor. “I forgot I said that. Ah, yeah, give me your armor.”, the lit chest aesir goes inside a tall white wood wardrobe filled with folded, colorful clothes, grabbing a gray wool set of long-sleeved shirts and pants. “I just put it on, for Ymir’s sake…”, says the god of time to the resurrected god of time who doesn’t really listen for his attention is on his nostrils, absorbing the perfume of the fresh clothes as it passes his face, feeling the wool rub against him, missing a female’s skin, missing a male’s skin, missing skin against his own. “Ah yes, I remember what you said. Tell me, why did you put it on? And why are you staring at the mirror? You never do that.”, the intruder aesir searches for some socks while the armored aesir scratches his beard, then he lowers his head, his humor fades to blue, “The prophecy. Today is the day it is said I die.”, to which the gray-suited god retorts with an apologetic expression on his face and hand gestures. “Yup. This armor is very valuable, just take your ring.”, there is a table next to the wardrobe that shines bright filled with food, wine, locks of hair tied in beautiful knots, all of which meet trembling white hairy hands. An oval silver table with an oval center ring and six thin curved metal straps distributed evenly to the sides clangs along with gentle shakes in response to the fury of a body with empty parts or filled up parts. “Is this it, then?”, the resurrected aesir stops snorting the inviting perfume of the locks of hair, swallows the half-animal drenched in wine he was munching yet the sensation is not the best one. The armored aesir watches his equal approach him, then he is squeezed in an embrace, “There is nothing that can be done. You are going to die, Baldur.”, followed by those words there is a moist nose struggling to breathe, and finally tears. The armored god just started sobbing but he is removed from the moment, “I need it now.”, as he hears that the armored one starts stripping until his eyes catch an image passing the door, an image with a presence the other Baldur senses, a completely new presence. “Holy Hrungnir is that what I call a goodbye present! What a ginger piece! And that golden skin? Wow!”, Odinson runs like a teenager to the door, his tongue ready to discover what she ate seven hours ago, but she is gone. “Here, here, take the armor! I am going to find this amazing present so I can say my proper goodbyes to this life!”, after that the intruder god just gazes upon the armor pieces as they float toward him, fitting his body like magic. The edges of the silver armor are thicker, joined by a second layer upon which abstract animal drawings are carved, while the rest of the surface is polished and ever radiant. Dark blue leather is strapped to the silver on the gauntlet and greaves, bringing more flexibility to the smaller joints. The black furry cape leaps like a predator, clinging to the straps on the back of the pauldrons, seeming alive, tricking any eye that gazes upon it whether the long black bits that twitch are fur or feathers. Nostalgia jolts the muscles so the seax knife swings fast, this heart forbids any type of lack of breath to happen, the left hand finds a pearl hilt with a lenticular shape, square silver pommel, the closed little finger presses against the carved steel double fuller cross-section. A smile forms as the left arm finds again the angle, strength, and poise to repeat the fleet of yore, drawing the straight steel blade with a trapezoid tip, hollow fuller built around a black jewel with an oval cut to it, from the leather sheath to the standard combat position. The blade begins at the pommel, through the cross-section, then there is a hollow part along the fuller where the stone fits somehow, yet the blade is more metal than jewel. The feeling the piece gives off is that slicing would be the only attack intended, but it could be a misdirection in the design. Once more the eyes close, silence fills up, then as the eyes open a little girl with yellow eyes jumps at him, she swings a fist at him. A veil of surprise plus awe covers Baldur’s countenance, his eyes see no fear in hers, his tilting head already thought of three things to do next, and sooner than the girl could think of one, the knife is at her heart. “Child, don’t kill yourself.”, Odinson pushes her aside checking the surroundings, she is in a bedroom in a castle with grey stone bricks, several portraits of the same long blonde hair nidavell are on display. Yellow eyes keep watch on the knife, the girl walks backward, away from him, but not in the direction of the door. “You didn’t trick me. I knew you were coming.”, with a swift movement the knife finds its sheath, “So that is what should go on your tomb: Here lies the girl who sensed her own death.”, the god of time sighs as he examines the bed. A bed, a routine, a life, the eyes search for the palm of an open hand, the fingers move as the brain commands it, setting an anchor at the bottom of his mind, becoming aware of the present moment. There is weight again, the words, the actions, all of it is back, kind of like waking up, but waking up in a different time, a time he didn’t choose to move forward to. “I am Mareridt.”, he knows, they smile at each other yet his eyes avoid hers, both for curiosity as well as for fear, “Who are you?”, a timid golden light flashes from this chest, Odinson turns to the wall, then feels the stone. Neither cold nor warm, there is a sense of peace in this place, shyness, the feeling is ironic given the aesir knows who dwells in this place. “I am on a mission.”, the room is big, there are several portraits of the man known as the king, Alberich, the second king. A big square room, with the entrance door at a corner, a metal humanoid statue by the door, like a clothes mannequin, the floor is carpeted with a soft organic rug, probably fur. “Sounds fun.”, the little girl talks raising a hand in the direction of the door, the aesir traveler sighs facing the wall, wondering how will he break the news, as well as talk about his mission. When he turns his face to the opposing wall, blue eyes water up as the exact white wood wardrobe from his old room is in front of him. Baldur walks closer to that piece of his past, gazing at the height of the ceiling, realizing the wardrobe had been cut in order to fit into this room. The doors now complain if you open them in addition to the smell, which is not the best. Dresses, long robes, grown woman clothes, grown woman smells, it feels like she is out of reach already. “Do you like these clothes? Aren’t these a bit too old for you?”, as the time god turns a blade finds his heart, held by someone with yellow eyes and red hair, but not a girl anymore. “Is that your mission? To ask me about my clothes?”, the cold from the black stone floor now returns on the aesir’s stomach, this woman doesn’t have a presence, he did not sense her, as he is still sensing the little girl hidden behind the bed. Even though this woman is the likeness of Mareridt, the blade forms from her own hand, flattening and sharpening itself. “Impressive.”, utters Baldur while the woman stares him from feet to hair string, then gives him a smirk, “Right back at you. I tried to read your mind three times, but I just can’t. So just tell me the truth.”, Odinson’s eyes find hers, his blue eyes begin flooding again, he turns around. “Do you know what Erilaz means?”, his chest flashes gold again as he sees a portrait of Nanna by the bedstand. “No. What does it mean?”, Mareridt is drawn by the reaction of this strange man to the portrait of her mother, the blade projecting from her arm morphs back to a hand. Odinson turns around to face his daughter but before he can move his lips he sees her tears, both the metallic woman’s tears and the ones from the child behind the end of the bed. “Are you who I think you are?”, the metallic Mareridt didn’t say a word, Baldur’s eyes turn to his child daughter, she cries, her lower lip trembles. “I am.”, his white hands grab a little body and embrace it, more alive than they ever will be. “Why are you here?”, a big slimy sniff follows, the girl breathes through her mouth, “I told you already. I am on a mission.”, a father kisses the top of his child’s head. “Am I your mission?”, little hands rub wet eyes, she coughs, “Yes. My mission is that you don’t grow up without me.”, then the girl laughs. And so years go by inside the Nibelungen Castle, with Baldur always beside Mareridt, always helping her, teaching her. The way daughter and father interact hints only she is able to see Baldur. Her powers develop very well, her understanding of battle progresses with ease, she grows happy. Then one day a gorgeous woman with red hair and yellow eyes touches Baldur’s shoulder, “Father, I have some wonderful news.”, however, her beautiful smile shines no light through the clouds of sorrow looming over this aesir’s mind. “I am preg-”, “Today is the day Maurie. Today is the day you become a woman, and the day I must leave you.”, the tears on his eyes could drown an elephant, his blood boils thinking of how the web of obligations around them should just burn to ashes. “Is this about that thing you told me one time? On how time is constant movement and choices are paths, and our choices can open paths for others as well to ourselves?”, the fact she remembers that puts the final drop on the waterworks, then it just flushes away. “I am proud of how you could become so much more I had intended to.”, he cannot look at her, at anything, his eyes are flooded. Being able to sense the four bitsy presences inside her womb as she embraces him feels like the most painful spear that could ever fly through his heart. “Ah yes, if we ever see each other again I have something to ask you. But let’s let it be something to look forward to, ok?”, after saying that she caresses his face. Baldur is shaken, her smile redeems so much, it is impossible to grasp its impact, how much it feels undeserving. A kiss snaps on the forehead of the goddess of dreams and nightmares, no words go along, only blue eyes water away until they finally close, and the man who raised his daughter cheating time itself finally leaves. Baldur opens his eyes but blinks as much as he can, trying to dry all the stupid tears. Gold shines to his side, strong heat to his front then an oak tree to his side, decrepit. He begins to recognize his surroundings, along with the familiar presence behind him, Skuld, who zooms to his back as he turns to face her. “You arrived righ’ in ‘ime ‘o stab my ‘hroa’ faw seven years, cock boy.”, Odinson laughs, rubbing his eyes, until he looks at her, “Oh, you mean it.”. The golden smile valkyrie jumps at the ginger aesir with hands on his neck, dropping him on the floor, and kissing him before he can say anything. “Freeze ‘ime an’ hump my brains ou’ faw ‘wen’y weeks already!”, Mimirson goes for his earlobe then Baldur’s nose catches a smell from her blonde crown, and time freezes. An eternity and not an eternity at all later, the pale couple lies on the floor of the sacred grove, little birds, little bugs, detached leaves, frozen in the air, stuck in place. The glassy smoke strangely still vibrates and swirls, even after being captured in the same space. “I really like ‘ah you ‘ame yourself. Da anger is clear an’ ‘hen you ‘esi’a’e. I’’s sexy.”, the valkyrie is shaking, covered in sweat and filth, “I need help with Heremod.”, Baldur sits up, not tired at all, his pale body is full of purple hickeys and red scratches. “Da power ov Eigh’-Legs is no’ some’hin ‘ha’ can be challenged. I’’s no’ like Six-Legs, my fa’her.”, Skuld takes deep breaths, it seems like she could fall asleep at any moment. “Is there no way of stopping her?”, Odinson stands up and conjures his armor to himself, the metal pieces spread out all over float in his direction. “Spill away ‘he con’en’s ov ‘he cup, if you can. Bu’ from wha’ I can see when I butcher’s hook a’ you, you canno’.”, and after that, the valkyrie is sound asleep. Baldur kneels down, the blue eyes shut as the lips find the valkyrie’s lips, she is warm, he rises up. Eyes open into darkness, a cave, the red-haired male walks nearing a bunch of paper-like brown membranes, with a brown rock right next to them. The brown membranes have a similar texture to his pale skin. Golden roots light up the place, Baldur rips off a piece of the shed skin in the pile then walks around, his eyes scan the floor. Without any sort of hurry, this place is completely searched until the god of time sees it, the Serpent’s broken fang. Odinson is afraid to touch it directly, so he uses the skin membrane to grab and then wrap the fang, holding it like so. A few deep breaths take place in complete darkness, so eyes open in a crimson clearing, with the further vegetation fencing the limits where the clearing solid ground becomes a blooded swamp. There is an old male with sharp yellow eyes staring at where a group of people also stare at, then Baldur grabs his hand, puts the Serpent’s fang on his hand, makes sure the hand closes on it, and holds it, finally vanishing before the yellow eyes rise from the thing on the hand to the person who put it there. Silence, with echoes far away. The god of time stands alone in a dark room, a dark hall, a big circular dome room with enough space for a banquet to take place, even considering only half the dome can accommodate folks. The dome has lower levels, there is the big hallway corridor leading to the entrance door, where the armory and bedrooms are, then there are lateral doors leading to the dragon keep on one side, with the building lab at the other side. Finally, there is a staircase by the wall between the corridor central door and the lateral doors, on each side. The stairs lead down to the forge and places only a few can reach. All of this is built within the space of one half of the dome, whereas the other half is filled from the bottom level to near the ceiling with gold coins, shining armor, metal and crystal flatware; jewelry, metal and crystal ores; decorative and ceremonial weapons and attire. The infinite riches of Andvari’s treasure hint how much light would barely be needed to illuminate this wide space. The god of time searches around with care on his step, not to disturb the warriors’ slumber, wondering if this is the right place. Then the golden heart drums with violence when the dreaded image is at last before his eyes as Baldur turns to the throne in the center of the hall. A silver cup composed of a cylindrical stem, with a wider circle opening at the rim compared to the circle at the base of the bowl, the shape of an upside-down circular truncated cone; short and thick metal stem about as thick as a mansir’s thumb; then a flat metal foot with a circle size following the imaginary line established by the bowl shape (4,3 cm / 1,41 ft). The shining silver along with the bowl, as well as the top of the flat foot, has jelling-style carvings made into dark patterns on the metal using sulfide. The insides of the bowl are gold-colored, and the cup is filled with a colorful smoke-like substance that behaves as a liquid but goes through itself, like ghost convection. The cup rests at the arm of the brownstone throne at the Nibelungen Castle, with spider webs on the base of the bowl and the throne’s arm. The gold of Andvari’s treasure shines a dim yellow light at the god of time as he draws heavier breathing, sweat clearly pumped by adrenaline, not by exhaustion because his new heart would not allow it, flows down the aesir’s face, the room is empty, no presences are felt. Then, almost as a challenge, a presence appears, behind him, so as an impulse his hand lunges towards the cup. The cup remains untouched, the wrist of Baldur was grabbed, a golden hand holds his in place, a few inches from the cup. A strong female golden wrist, golden hand, her skin is golden and her body is strong. A naked body, muscular, with bruises and scars all over, a burnt left arm now shredded with muscles. The body of a warrior. Her red hair waves around as if there was no gravity commanding it, behaving like the smoke on the cup. His blue eyes search for the eyes of this female, his heart gives him the beating of a lifetime, this is a crazy feeling. The whole castle begins to shake, the god of time breathes slowly, “You will now find out why I am called invincible.”. Baldur’s breathing bit by bit starts to resemble the growling of a beast, his teeth grow then sharpen, the black furry cape stretches along his expanding body. Black fur covers his body all the way around, his torso expands, growls seem to command the jaw to project, long black nails grow out of shaking limbs, then a black bear falls forward, face to face with his prey. His red eyes spark with fear since this female just stood and watched his transformation, her blue eyes stare back in silence, as a challenge. Her lips move, wording something soundless, then this menacing female begins to shine, her bored expression is the only thing visible, there are no signs that a battle will begin. The black bear with leaves and petals where his heart beats stands up, roars, fangs aimed at the leg of his prey. Odinson’s heart begins racing, he is not moving, even though his brain commands his body to attack, nothing happens, only the golden light coming out of his chest shines stronger by the seconds. The god of time, now in bear form, is in front of the golden female, not moving, receiving her cold stare, and she stops shining. Followed by the golden female, the golden heart of the resurrected god also ceases shining, then his eyes are forced shut. Inside the darkness, he is pulled back with all force, sucked by a tremendous vortex, backward inside the blindfold of superior power. His breathing returns, his eyes open, he now wears his armor and sinks a bit in the cinder floor, then as he rises his body from the cinder sands the image of Moddie’s eyes strikes ultimate fear. The flame eyes of the cadaver in front of his group mean nothing now. Odinson then turns his eyes to the rotting naked dark skin body of the giant female jotun (15 ft / 4,57 m) in front of him, to the eyes that are just flames blowing out of the holes of her skull and admits their collective defeat, “She cannot be stopped anymore, Embla.”. Upon hearing that the spinning flames of her eyeholes, behaving as they were about to shoot out and burn, cease movement, and become droplets of fire. “Heimdall…”, the white god looks around searching for the origin of the voice until he understands, until he remembers, “… another task for you.”. Curly requests help from his brother stretching his hand, to which Gullbein responds grabbing his hand and helping him up. “Tell the queen of blue Adelruna needs to be born.”, the waters of the Sorrow Sea boil, steam emerges from the islands of ash, moving the gray sands around. “Also, ask the blacksmith to restore your mortality.”, the aesir youngster makes mental notes of what seems easier to remember, since it all makes little to no sense to him. The way his siblings stare at each other though reminds him of the way his parents used to look at each other, like he watched accomplices of a terrible crime. “Uncle, this is our goodbye. I will head to lead my armies now.”, and in an instant joy filled the scenery when Gullbein looked at Mareridt, smiling at her sudden radiance. “Whenever you think of me, I shall find you.”, the svart female hugs the white god, messing his hair as they laugh. Baldur receives a kiss on his forehead then sees the only one able to melt his metallic heart, “What is an Erilaz, dad? You never told me.”, Mareridt smiles at her father, tearing up a bit. The ginger beard aesir notices his brother searches for someone, “Can you take me to Alfheim? We can talk on the way.”, the svart woman dries her tears on her father’s black furry cape, which he pulls away from her, “Uh, sure. Don’t touch my war attire please.”. “She is with you now.”, Baldur turns to Gullbein, giving him a smile, “Yes, but you will see her again.”, and the god of time sees gold. The aesir siblings lose their balance as the cinder sands tremble. Embla builds the path leading to the exit of this place, raising cinder from the bottomless ocean, then the aesir trio walks along the path, with no more words to trade between themselves.

(Chapter 9 -> Sep. 13th 2021 // Chapter 10 -> Dec. 4th 2021)

A smile without teeth showing. Kind, simple generosity after harsh words and a serious look always changed the focus from the bad thing to the good thing. Teaching moments were always like that, with the refreshing smile to signal there was no space for an argument. Now is the time to act. A frightful nightmare proved ominous in the morning as the eyes opened to the sound of a horn, the horn. Time is up, that’s what it meant, then fear roared like a flame that could only be put out by a tight embrace. The last thing on the memory is the hug, the heat of her body, the shelter of her strength, the place to return to. The fist clenches and trembles, the hug is now but a veil of smoke revealing the unavoidable reality. It is all far away, deep in her mind, but still resonating within her disquieted heart. “Your highness, we are about to enter and discuss our part in the war. Are you all right?”, the young princess shakes her head, closes her eyes and laughs to herself, “I was… it’s ok. The thing, dear friend, is that this is all very new.”, the tall male beside her nods in agreement, “Hm, hm, yes. Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t feel ready let me lead the talk, but I’ll wait for your signal.”, and then he rests his right forearm on her shoulder, his hand is missing. A constant breeze flows around this place, this colorful place. And noise can be heard below, far below, water movement and impact against walls, like ocean meeting vertical land. Water can be heard everywhere, but the deeper it goes the louder it gets. On occasion tree branches creak as they change the direction of the swing, opposing the winds. Everything in this place is wood, branches crossing in interlaced patterns to create floors upon which it is possible to walk, interlaced floor rich with every kind of leaves and flowers. Most tend to fear walking along and stepping on leaves or flowers, but the leaves and flowers actually move away from anything approaching them. There is a smell that seems to ooze out of the dark brown wood, an odor, like the smell of a wet dog. The odor mixes up with the smell of flowers and humidity resulting in a weird neutral smell, neither good nor bad. This place is a huge cylindrical structure with several buildings by the walls and only a single building on its center, that being the highest one, where the princess and the jotun are outside of, and from that building to the wall it takes a few tens of feet to reach, and from it to the ground below it takes a few hundred. The inside of a very wide and tall tower, and it is not a conventional building, but a natural one. The walls are like the walls of a big tree trunk, yet, the walls are not rugged and full of moss and irregularities all over the surface. Strange as it may look like, the wood walls are of a straight surface, of a beautiful glow and in several spots in the wall it feels like it gets sucked in like it was the inside part of a tree where a tree bough formed itself. These strange holes in the structure sprout clear water. Tree branches had sprouted out of the wall and now spread far into the structure and several branches can be seen reaching the center part, with a similar straight clean surface to them. And wherever there had been holes in the wall sprouting cristal water, the branches immediately below the hole had entwined with each other to canal the liquid, forming aqueducts, but it doesn’t always work. On several parts of the giant structure, there are waterfalls of clear water where either the amount of water had been too great for any branch structure to hold, and then there is a waterfall spraying water everywhere, or it had had weak pressure and the water since then slides down the wall, mixing with the secretion in the wall and creating mirrors along the vertical surface. In the majority of situations, water collapses from holes in the wall forming small waterfalls, gathering in some branch structures along with the tower’s walls, spiral aqueducts, which would gather clear water from other holes and end, and the water would fall into new and bigger aqueducts, forming bigger waterfalls. The water sprouts from the walls clear as glass, then as it runs down to the very bottom of the structure, it gets greener and greener, sluggish, swampy, to a point where it stops in place, like a green crystal-like kind of secretion. This green secretion seems to be what made the aqueduct system so efficient, for it seals the water canals preventing spillage, and it is also used to seal habitational housing all over in this place, little huts by bodies of clear water, with light inside. The houses don’t seem to be a natural part of the colossal tower structure, since the branches are broken or cut and placed in a way to create a designed building, and the green secretion goes between branches to insulate and cover possible holes. A few tens of feet below the highest building, where the royalty resides, there are only the aqueducts on the walls and nothing on the center, so the royal palace is hard to access, designed that way. Then, going down a few more feet, there are parallel structures next to the aqueducts with dirt on them, sprouting grass and crops, fruitful trees, and vines visited by small insects, birds, and herbivores. The oldest inhabitants tend to the farms and live by the huts on the walls close by, all alone. At the farms, aqueducts multiply, side by side, on different levels, like a staircase of wet plantations, each with a different type of crop. At the beginning of each crop, there is a hut that serves as a bathroom and each inhabitant needs to use the bathroom correspondent to the type of food eaten. Other huts tend to be built under a hole from which clear water sprouts, and then there is a water wheel collecting the water and spinning it, but the water runs from inside, between the hut and the wooden wall, and on most cases ends in an aqueduct structure below the hut. The clear water gathers in a pool at the top of the hut and whirlpools inside a drain, this pool is visited by a wide variety of birds, bathing and drinking on it. Some huts have ceiling pools for birds, others collect the water in wooden barrels and distribute it all over. The water wheel is built with branches and leaves, every hut has the same building structure but the water wheel on each one serves different purposes. Those are grinding seeds, making clothing, producing flour, producing malt and making wrought iron. One adult of strong physique comes out of a hut carrying some wrought iron ingots, with an elder outside smoking on a pipe who smacks the adult in the back. The adult wears the same type of garment as the old people, a linen shirt with no sleeves, going down the waist to cover the knees and a straw body armor covering the torso, this one has wrought iron ingots sticking out of the armor piece because free hands are needed. Even though there are several structures made from branches there are not structures for transit, which forces the inhabitants to climb the branches and walls in any way they can. That is the reason why the oldest inhabitants of the tower tend to the farms, where there is food, fresh water in addition to being where the bathrooms are because they cannot move around this place so easily, not even after knowing every bit of it from memory. The farms are also the place where fertilizer is made. Younger adults tend to the fertilizer process, since everyone uses the bathrooms on the higher residences, whenever a younger adult goes to the bathroom they pick the one with no flowers by its door and use the contents to make fertilizer. This same younger adult also spreads the fertilizer along the crop field the bathroom is part of, and the elder responsible for that crop supervises the process. After the process is done a flower is pinned on the side of the door. Smoke rises as inhabitants climb up and down, some with eyes closed and woven cloth covering the face, others wear full-face straw masks with no holes on them. It is a long way down for adults who deal with wrought iron, for the smoke starts at the bottom of the tower, by the raging waters. Wrought iron goes in, steel comes out, adults go in a big green furnace, by the middle of it, carrying the iron and down by the base of it the steel ingots come out. A big chimney with two entrance levels, the lower one being the one closest to the water in case molten metal spills out. The furnace was built with the same green crystal it forms from the mixture of the walls secretion with water, but some engineering seems to take place to make it more durable and heat resistant. There is life by the raging waters. Everywhere water splashes, young inhabitants jump and fight. These fighters are young, at the dawn of adolescence, crafting runes in leaves and conjuring all sorts of enchantments. ‘Green blood’, they call it. Not all völvas are into actual blood, it seems, or maybe the strength differs. Some place above the young commotion, old women rest in their huts, writing runes in flower petals which are thrown in the air and float up, circling up in the center of the tower, rising as if had the guidance of an invisible wind to grant the regent good wishes. Flower petals flood the surroundings as the princess finally reaches for the doorknob, the smile and the repeating words were right there in her mind, she couldn’t doubt herself even if she wanted to. She feels the cold iron stealing heat from her hand, she feels the light of the inside escape the small gap between the door and the arch, and flood her eyes as she enters. Her chest moves as it could hold her panics, finally, she is strong enough and breathes normally even when the actual feeling is to not breathe at all. Inside the room steps in a female with a brown curly mane, thin and long curls cover her chest and back. Brown reddish eyes, sometimes full red, but never just brown. White skin covered with freckles all over, and on her face a few on the forehead and a complete veil of dots covering her cheeks, nose, chin, and mouth. The cutest button nose, rounded sides, rounded tip, slim nostrils. Fat lips sprinkled with freckles, teeth structure with protuberant canines that will rarely be seen because her smile is always toothless, and an oval chin. The 1,72 m (5,64 ft) tall female wears a black silk dress, cap sleeve, trumpet skirt above the knee and brown leather high heel boots covering the feet and ankle. This beautiful princess is Trudi Sifjarson, an honorary valkyrie, the goddess of violence. The royal quarters are called the regent’s cage, and now the princess understands why, glancing at the floor and ceiling which are cage structures made of wrought iron, both with a wave pattern. A tempestuous and radiant room. The regent’s cage has a double high ceiling, with a balcony at the higher floor where there are weapons and armor and at the actual center of the room there is a wide wrought iron pillar built in the same cage structure of the room, connecting the outside with the hole in the higher floor. On the balcony that can be accessed through jumping or climbing branches, there are interesting crafts made for warfare, also the balcony takes a quarter of space compared to the lower floor. The hole up there makes it possible to drop down to the lower parts of the tower. There are three vanir females in this room, two who sit beside the third who lays down on a bed. The whole place is divided with beds in the center, around the pillar, round tables with chairs, desks with books and crafting stations, and large wooden wash tubs on a corner. All furniture is made from dark, crooked and expanded perished wood. Strikingly, the furniture doesn’t seem uncomfortable but in fact beautiful and smooth, like it had been shaped in some manner. The walls are made from the same dark brown wood from the walls outside, the only difference being that the walls inside the royal room are chiseled using relief technique. The lower level has wooden frames and the second level just has branches full of leaves, flowers, fruits and life. The relief sculptures along the wall on the floor level seem to tell a story, the story of the war, the first war, the Aesir-Vanir War. The sculptures are like door frames with similar measurements to the door from the entrance, and so the story begins on the right side of the door, looking at it from the inside, and on the exact opposite from the door, on the other side of the royal suite, there is a broken frame covered with debris and vegetation. The story of the war starts with the aesir being seduced by the visiting witch Gullveig, the first frame; and in their violence they conquer her, subdue her sexually and then stab her in the heart, setting her body on fire afterward, the second frame. However, the witch returns every time she is conquered and burned, and bewitches them even more, to the point they fall under her spell, third frame. The witch is proficient in an unknown craft, seid, which is interpreted as the visible lines of one’s essence, connected to one’s hudr, fylgjur, and hammingja, managing to fight several aesir in equal standing, fourth frame. After convincing the aesir she is powerful and hard to kill, she is allowed to leave, the fifth frame. Upon this event taking place, the aesir begin to question whether if conquering is better than having strong and able females by their beds, frame six. The reasoning eventually fails to keep on and the warmongering aesir decide to pillage Vanaheim and conquer all the vanir females, frame seven. The aesir send in valkyries to deal with seid users and follow after, with Gullveig at the top of the tower, frame eight. Trudi scans each frame of relief chiseled wood, feeding her eyes at every bit of design in the sculpture piece, building the story in her head, the same story she was taught. Her eyes are drawn to the relief frames as it was part of something very familiar but still unknown, the images show a story that had been in a specific way inside her head for a long time. Who actually was Gullveig, is she still alive, and is she even real? There are so many people from tales and prophecies the young aesir has never seen, and now there is a chance she is living a moment that will become part of a wall, somewhere. The aesir princess walks nearing the center of the room, where the bed is and three females are watching her. Drowsy green eyes meet Sifjarson’s reddish stare, a hand reaches out and the aesir holds it, resting one knee on the floor. “Regent.”, says Trudi, by the edge of the bed, “I’m only a make-do while the real regent realizes we are at war and returns. I apologize for receiving you in such a manner, but there have been some developments and I was injured. Anyway, that will not stand in the way of negotiations. Welcome to Heartwood.”, and a smile forms, making Trudi’s cheeks paint red. This female is hard to look at with dispassion, her presence is disarming. A face only dreams could describe, a body which is naked perfection. Dazzling skin with short blonde vellus hair all over, like a peach. Shinning blonde hair conformed to the opposite side where the princess prostrates herself, in an amount that would cover the vanir’s body completely was she standing. The female traits on her beautiful figure are those which hint hearts to scream appetite, hands to take and hold as a gift, mouths to promise and swear and salivate, bodies to beg. The clavicle, spatula and first rib on her left shoulder are broken, purple, her left lung had been crushed and punctured but the skin doesn’t show the story behind this wound, as it should. The only record of the wound on this female is the blood to the side of her head, the stain on the dirt where she coughed blood, and the blood that dripped on the left side of her thorax, which by the place where it dripped can denounce what organ had been hit. This is likely testimony of the incredible healing capacity of the Igunar dynasty. Her left shoulder is covered with several leaves and she lies on dirt, dirt stuck together by roots of grassland. The tiny roots coming out of the dirt clutch to her body and the leaves placed on her skin dry out as the days fade in and out. She rests her head on a small bush. The female lying down is Freyja Igunar, goddess of fertility, threader of seid, vanir general, former regent of Vanaheim, and wife of her brother Frey Igunar, the regent of Alfheim. A translucent male appears by the princess’ side, a huge male (13,12 ft/ 4 m), a jotun, with tanned skin, monstrous left hand, monstrous feet, muscular body covered with thick brown hair, but not an athletic body, in reality, an inactive one. Short brown slick back hair almost completely replaced by white, a big head with a big and wide jaw, enormous nose, big ears. A long brown and white braided beard with two similar braids going down to about the belly’s height. He wears brown leather armor on the shoulders, forearms, and shins. Leather sandals, black wool pants, and on his neck he wears a necklace made from the bones of his own right hand. This is Týr Hrodurjarson, the god of light and shadow, creator and master of the tiwaz rune, royal advisor of aesir. Týr is translucent, transparent and there are other images of him scattered throughout the room. He grabs documents and reads them, watches relief frames on the walls in addition to appearing in front of the female vanir sitting in chairs, he nods, they nod back. “Were you told your mission?”, inquires Freyja with her eyes closed, struggling to stay motionless. Týr has an image beside the princess, silent, only looking at the princess and smiling, she looks at him, he nods once with vigor and she understands the gesture. Trudi stands up and takes a deep breath. “Yes, I was. I have currently two missions. First I must hunt down the Monster of the Pit, the hamramr berserker, the wolf Fenris. There is a rumor that he recruited his children and is hunting mansir, denying his fate, fleeing the Web’s design. For that, I must recruit capable warriors to help me capture him, and your daughters were recommended. The recruitment is the second mission.”, Trudi’s heart is racing with so much excitement she feels accomplished, but as Freyja searches her eyes Sifjarson looks down because suddenly being the center of attention is uncomfortable. In an attempt to mask her weird behavior she acts like she’s waiting for a response, lowering her head and putting her arms on her back. Freyja and the other two female vanir look at each other, one of the female vanir sitting by the other side of the bed stands and walks to the end of the bed. She has straight blonde hair about shoulder length, thin bright yellow eyebrows, light green eyes that stand out on the face with expression, tall nose with a curved bridge, round face with a weak chin, big ears like a tower shield for her hair and a conquering smile full of lines, cheek, and white. Her hair is effortless, it floats, travels from side to side, to the back, to a knot, to a hair bun pinned with a twig a bird brought. Strong and muscular arms and legs full of crooked blonde vellus hair and sunspots. She wears a white linen dress, tight to her curvy 5,77 ft (1,74 m) figure, two straps going over the shoulders and leaving the neck and arms naked, with small flat and colorful river stones as buttons on the front going from the bosom to the belly, showing some skin. The dress goes down to her ankles and divides on the front with the opening rising to her knees. She is barefoot, and by her feet several mice gather, staring and smelling towards the aesir. Small colorful birds occasionally pass over her head and one of those birds carries a steel wand, which is not pointy neither sharp. Even though the green eyes on this vanir princess suck you in, they do not stand a chance compared to the brown eyes of the old woman who stands right behind her, wearing a dark grey cape dress that just fades into invisibility, as her breaking white hair does, as her rugged paper skin does, as her hands do… but never the eyes. This vanir princess is Gørsimi (goalrsimi, means treasure) Igunar, goddess of beauty, second völva of Vanaheim, next matriarch in line, and most proficient at merkstave dueling. “Hello!”, Gørsimi gives the aesir a beautiful smile, “I would love to go on an adventure with you! My name is Gørsimi! Nice to meet you!”, and the vanir princess bows, to which Trudi responds with another smile, without teeth, and an equally low bow she tries to measure as she goes, with a bit of anxiety involved. “I have seen you fight, Asa-Trudi. I know of your powers. Tell me, do my daughters have what it takes?”, inquires the goddess of fertility, but the other princess erupts from her seat and doesn’t let the aesir princess answer, “How would she know?!”, and the second princess is Gørsimi’s twin, but the hair on this one is short, a wedge pixie cut with bangs slightly covering her eyes. Her body is stronger and more fit, muscles shape the tight brown linen jumpsuit she wears, and the straw wicker armor covering her arms, legs, waist and torso show this one is not a blood caster. From inside the tasset on the armor, the second vanir princess pulls a steel push dagger with amazing design and carvings, and the dagger locks on her hand as she stares at the aesir princess and smiles. “I bet she would approve me after a battle.”, upon hearing this Trudi’s expression is immovable, her eyes light up red as blood like a sun of death rising in the distance as she answers, “There is no need for you to fight me, nor anyone, to prove anything. Just by looking into your eyes I can see what I need to know. It’s all in the eyes.”. The armored princess laughs as she enjoys the red eyes from her visitor, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”, the second vanir princess runs full speed at Sifjarson, jumps, and aims the dagger at her neck. “No, I do not. Who are you, Igunar?”, Trudi evades the attack rolling sideways, away from the bed, and from her back she hears, “I am Gersemi Igunar, the goddess of desire.”, and then the aesir turns around. Trudi flashes red in the direction of the bewitching gaze of Gersemi and begins to see a completely different person, a person she wishes would put out the fire of her body, and soul. She sees a man who embodies the opposite of the man who first touched her sexually. A man who instead of first touching her intimate parts, touched her hand. A man who instead of first grabbing her by the hair and throwing her down, grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up. A man who instead of first making her bleed and cry, made her laugh and dance. A man who instead of being a tall muscular golem with violence in his ways, is a small paunchy nidavell with poetry in his courtship. A man who instead of only pursuing her for sex, is afraid to propose it. She sees Álviss, the all-wise, the nidavell brother-in-arms of Alberich, the second king, and the elemental lord smithy of all unliving things. The little male (1,26 m / 4,13 ft) smiles and his red hair is all messy, resembling her family and kindling her throbbing heart, brown eyes like hers, hawk nose with small nostrils and a long beard because it denounces wisdom according to giants, said he once. The small male is naked and at the ready, his body is muscular and hairy all over, tanned, and he walked in Sifjarson’s direction while giving her a yellow smile. The idea of sex with him was never imminent, that has been something very reassuring. Now, seeing him like this and the idea of it being so real starts to drain out the oxygen in the room, it feels like her inwards crawl all over inside her, it doesn’t feel like he is walking in her direction but like she is freefalling and is going to crash into him, exploding into infinite little pieces. Trudi throws herself on the floor and starts feeling the surface, thinking about it, the texture, the temperature, and she looks at the naked male she desires since he proposed to her and begins to describe his appearance to herself, in her mind. She takes the reigns of her own breathing, imagining she is pulling and pushing a big wooden box. Breathing in, pulling the box with all her might, breathing out, pushing it in an explosive sprint. The small man then expands and transforms into the man who she never wants to see anymore, not even in her nightmares, but he is forever in there. A huge male (22,96 ft/ 7 m long, 9,84 ft/ 3 m wide), jotun, with thick brown hair on the head, going along the back of the neck, the back of the shoulders, back of the forearms, back of the torso, and keeps going until it stops at the back of the shins. As this creature expands he breaks furniture, snaps twigs near the ceiling, crawling on the cage floor. He has big ears, a big nose, an elliptical head that projects his face forward and sharp teeth. His skin has clearer spots that spread along his whole body like a jigsaw puzzle in his tanned skin, where the pale bits are like missing pieces. Pale skin bits on darker skin. The contrast of skin tones gives an observer the impression of looking at the sky, for the pale bits in the skin resemble clouds. This is Hrungnir, the golem, son of the glacial rock Vimur, the largest river of ether pouring from the largest rock, and birthing the largest creature, the last great general of Jotunheim, the head of the jotun clan, and master of the great ax until it was banned by aesir law. Her red eyes are pouring. Seeing this jotun, who violated her at a young age as an act of vengeance against her father, brims her heart with incandescent rage. “Why am I seeing him?”, she asked herself, and the answer made itself clear in her mind. Desire is not only sexual, but also any other kind, and there is much desire when it comes to this man. Desire to ask him why, desire to kill him, desire to protect her younger self, to change what happened, desire to… The giant fright dissolves and Gersemi appears in front of her, and her knife is buried on Trudi’s chest. “I win.”. Now it is Trudi’s time to laugh. “Gersemi, I am a child of Donar. I am a monster, like my brother, and war cannot harm us. I am violence, so it cannot harm my body… only my mind, as you now know.”, the armored princess removes the knife and no blood spills out of the wound. In reality, there is no wound. “I know who you are, that is why I would stab you in the first place. I am not crazy, you know.”, and both princesses smile. The ghost near Gørsimi yells, and upon eye exchange with the wraith, the princess turns to her mother with a trembling voice, “Jotunheim is invading.”.

It keeps in his hand without information about weight or temperature, and whenever he feels like using the hand which holds it, the opposite hand just grabs it. The sight of the golden hilt of the sword often surprises the eyes, followed by a bad feeling, a certainty that he was not and is not dreaming. The positive thing this indicates is that she is real, out there, weightless inside his mind until anything brings forth a piece of information about her. The man holding the golden sword hilt is skinny, with an average height, brown eyes and inside his chest beats a romantic tune. He is Álvaro, “Alfarr”, a name which means “warrior protector” in thulur, the mansir chosen by Laufeyjarson to be the war witness during Ragnarok. Álvaro lives in a small apartment with pocket-size versions of what a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom would be like. Smoke rises in front of Álvaro, a sizzling sound muffles his whistling, he flips a headless fish over an electric barbecue grill. The skinny mansir wears a soccer uniform shirt with red and black details, on the lapel, there is a shield and written on it is the word “Ituano”, grey jeans, some rubber slippers. The golden sword hilt’s pommel is shaped like the head of a roaring panther with black jewel eyes and black teeth, the pommel is smooth and shines like a mirror. From the smooth panther’s head, it transitions to a rugged grip with dimensions designed to fit a mansir’s hand, yet it ends there without a guard. This elaborate piece doesn’t feel like a sword hilt at all, but rather as a decorative piece of some sort, perhaps a broken piece of something bigger, also “sword” would not be the first guess. Right beside the rising smoke is the open window, high above where outside sounds echo, mixed up, the electric grill rests over the stone counter where the sink is, with the stove next to it and the minifridge below the sink. Behind Álvaro is a two-seat couch, beaten and covered in a veil of some years of dust, then a small screen plasma tv over a plastic stool. Some portraits hang over the water infiltrated white walls, corners with blue ink pen scribbles that could also be considered portraits, although every one of those memories seems pointless now. On the other side of the sink, closer to the center of the wall, there is an old washing machine, over it some shelves with cleaning products, last a wall dividing the bathroom with the rest of the open space. The skinny mansir doesn’t think of any of those people, only on the valkyrie he saw land in front of him and walk away with all else he considered important. He held to a great extent onto the way her focused eyes would rest on their exchange, as he could also steal some of her life from her and make her mind lighter. That was a good feeling but probably a lie. Feelings must be cultivated, like ideas, like understanding something: everything is a learning process. Like this fish that is obviously delicious since the act of grilling it has been mastered, one day that woman could become obviously in love with this skinny loser. It takes time to understand, time for the eyes to recognize the signs, time for the process to become second nature, time for showing what’s inside as it is. Letting it show itself is not the best. All fires need taming. Alfarr reaches for a plastic plate and a metal fork inside the sink, turns the electric grill off, only then stabs the fish with the fork, putting it on the plate. On the plasma tv, terrible images show, the munching sound joins the screaming and fast talking. Over the bed, right beside the couch, a backpack is open with some clothes and some money spread over. In front of the bed, there is an open door to the bathroom, all wet and steamy, next to that door, perpendicular to it, the front door. No images of the gas station show, but there were some images of a cargo truck on the state road that passes the station. Álvaro feels numb because there is not a way to grasp what it all means, the questions don’t land on answers and the mind becomes worn out. The metal thing in his hand is there, he can squeeze it, bang it on the wall and it sounds as it should, so it feels real. How is any of that real? So the problem is that he believed everything would just fade into regular days, one day he would wake up and all would be like it should, but that day didn’t come. On the opposite, more and more the reality seems to fade into that episode, with strange things, inexplicable things filling up regular days on the television. Strange phenomena, people dying in gruesome ways, or just disappearing. Yet the thing on his hand keeps there, he can’t seem to throw it out of the window, or inside the trash can, or leave it at someone’s doorstep. That means only one thing: he is holding it until someone comes to take it. Why him? What does that mean? What is this thing? Maybe it could be a sword hilt because it keeps on his hand and is easy to hold and to swing, but if so where is the blade? The skinny mansir ends his dinner, stands up, puts his dish plus silverware on the sink then he hears a knock on the door. “This is it. Someone is going to gut me open like a fish.”, he thinks, now wondering if that is why he kept his eyes on the fish being gutted at the street market. He walks towards the door, opens it, and there she is. His heart, his junk, both twist in sync. The gray eyes find him, her expression keeps the same, oval face like a statue, her short turned-up nose doesn’t draw a breath, heart-shaped lips that had hardly ever moved in front of anyone, her white hand rises to put a portion of her shoulder-length black wavy hair behind one ear as she enters the apartment. The 1,60 m / 5,24 ft tall female wears a dark blue plaid slim fit suit buttoned on the waist, a light blue social shirt with a small blue necktie with white dots and brown leather flat sandals. She passes Álvaro, sitting on his bed next, then more people enter but he keeps staring at her. This female is Mist, the valkyrie of parry, the recruiter of hammingjar who protect by tricking enemies, most versed in some type of non-violent martial art. Alfarr keeps his empty-headed stare at the black-haired valkyrie as his mind seems to piece reality together with dreams, so just like that he is punched in the face. A left hook shoots the skinny mansir flying with a tuned out mind, confusion blurring every rational blink in his brain, regaining himself after landing on the couch together with the pain that lands on his face, an exploding taste of iron floods his mouth. From the front door, he hears a sweet voice, “You let your guard down.”. The first thought on Álvaro’s mind is “Is she laughing at me?”, his eyes turn to Mist in a flash but she doesn’t seem happy about what happened, but she is not unhappy either. “Maybe she doesn’t even notice I exist.”, he stands up and goes to the kitchen sink to wash his face. An old woman passes behind him, pushing him a bit, the gesture feels polite but the way she ignores him seems pretentious. The war witness examines this one as he goes around the couch to sit down, probably they must be from some mafia and she looks like the boss. Light blue eyes glance out the window, the breeze hits the female’s white tomboy haircut scuffing her whiskers, her frozen lips, as well as her face, paint a portrait of painful boredom, her small nose with a bulbous tip works to a bare minimum. There is no excitement for this female toward anything for the simple reason her orders go against her actual desires, however, she was promised to have her desires met at the end of this all. She can feel her forehead throbbing towards the attempt of understanding how going the opposite direction would lead her to a long-awaited rest, but the words plus who uttered them have good credit. This 5,9 ft \ 1,79 m tall skinny female wears a double breasted pink leather trench overcoat that reaches to her knees, a white buttoned down shirt with a silver bow tie, grey shiny flat-front dress pants, and grey leather brogue boots. She is Hildr, valkyrie general, rank 2, the recruiter of present hammingja, that meaning she harnesses the power from the living. “Gulldis.”, the General points at the door after saying that, but it is all she does. Her way of leading is inflexible, keeping to names, directions, stares, clearing her throat along with pushing people around so they understand it’s their turn to act. Her blue wrinkled eyes check on everyone except Mist, who seems to be feeling movement from all directions while carrying measured breaths. Absolute silence fails to install because of an annoying presence moving around, discovering sensations in this tiny place. Hairy tanned hands feel the walls, brown eyes scan every detail within Álvaro’s small household, long brown hair sweeps the shoulders, a long stubble beard with no imperfections covers the mouth, the lips draw a sad expression with a downward arc, greek nose with a perfectly straight bridge often sighs steam from trivial thoughts, yellow teeth that women would still kiss for the colorful words that come with, slim athletic body from a warrior with more scars than muscles to prove himself. The 1,80 m (5,90 ft) tall male wears a vivid red dress shirt with short sleeves, blue destroyed jeans, and no shoes. This male is able to shapeshift into any living animal, even mixtures of different animals, and the only part of his body that never changes is his lacerated tongue, cut all over with rune carvings. He is Bragi Ullrson, known by several folk as “Ýdalirson”, the god of poetry, master of poets, master of bow warriors, master of minni, master of hamr, master of hudr, master of fylgur, keeper of the memory of war and important events, servant of the Spider, regent of Asgard while the king ruler is absent, one of the strongest aesir. Bragi, with great curiosity, examines the wood from the bed the valkyrie of parry sits on, tapping in with his closed fist in addition to forcing it with his arms to test how sturdy it is. He then slides his fingers along the sheets on the bed. Upon reaching the end of the bed, Ýdalirson blows a kiss towards a woman by the front door and she throws a punch at him, he dodges it slapping her hand, they smile at each other. This smiling woman sits on the floor next to the front door with the palm of one hand on the ground like she was trying to anticipate footsteps. Her hands are pointed, with long fingers, covered with brown fingerless leather gloves. She has weird looking blonde hair with a metallic golden glow, joined on her back in a long and thick braid reaching to her thighs, clear hazel eyes check for the window and the General’s reaction, she has a bumpy nose with a rising tip and big nostrils, sharp lips that break open a gorgeous smile, square jawline, and a voice that covers harshness with chocolate and sprinkles. She wears a long-sleeve tuscan sun tight shirt, revealing her strong arms, back, and abdomen with deep muscle lines; tight electric blue jeans displaying big legs and feminine hips; and burnished walnut saffiano leather boots. This 1,83 m (6 ft) tall female is Sif Nethusjarson, Gulldis (golden lady), one of the strongest aesir and trainer of einherjar and gods. Álvaro feels strange whenever he stares at the blonde woman and she catches him, giving him a big smile. Doesn’t feel like flirting, doesn’t feel like superiority, doesn’t feel like a provocation. It is the same smile she gave the other man, simple and kind, added to her posture and physical build brings forth a sensation that is weird. Her words, they stick like the punch still lingers, “Don’t let your guard down.”. “Are they not going to kill me?”, he wonders without losing himself, afraid of a second punch, looking at all of the presents. It doesn’t feel like an execution but as an escort mission, including the fact that no one asked about the metallic thing he holds. A loud crackling followed by glass shattering startle Alfarr, his eyes search and meet the General destroying his window, pulling the metal structure out of the wall and breaking the glass so the shards fly outside, throwing everything outside. “Gulldyr approaches.”, Hildr shows her open fist to Bragi and closes it, to which he responds imitating her gesture. Mist stands up and walks towards Álvaro, sitting next to him, his heart increases gallop, yet again he is startled. The wood in the bed bends and snaps as it breaks, parts that were not joined join as the wood merges to form a longbow, last the sheets break in the same fashion to form the bowstring. Several bits of the concrete break, shaping together into thin stone arrows. Ýdalirson grabs the bow and fetches one of the arrows, from his back he is punched in the shoulder, “Ouch! By the Eddas, Sif!”, she laughs as her braids align with her spinal cord and stick to it, then a numberless amount of golden hair filaments sprout out of the braid covering Sif’s body completely like a suit of armor. “You are no fun sober, you know?”, the blonde warrior warms up moving her body, “General’s orders, also said the one who never drinks. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat on her husband, it’s like it’s not even Ragnarok. Live a little before you die, Gulldis!”. Mist walks to the side of the General, Sif walks Álvaro to the middle of the room and stands in front of him, and Bragi kneels down beside the golden lady. “Iduna will never be wrong. Why do you have to be such a pervert, my friend?”, only her eyes are visible, golden strings covered her body and shine with elegance. “I don’t love my wife and I won’t live in a lie. We are gods, we can just pick who we want and do and do and then murder them all. Mansir females are nothing but delicious cattle, and my tongue is never tired of them.”, a mixture of a feline roar immersed in thunder roar can be heard outside, Sif sighs, “Yeah, I definitely prefer you drunk. If you were puking on my lap right now it would be less revolting.”. “Changing the subject, how did the golem get power to move again? Gullbein drained it, didn’t he?”, Ýdalirson waits for Mist to look back at him and answer, but the General’s hand shows and she points at Alfarr’s hand where the sword hilt is. “Ah yes, the seed of Yggdrasil has been giving it energy since he held it. I forgot about that.”. A brownstone tower shield appears from thin air between the warriors then a voice can be heard, “General, ‘he dustbin lid is no’ ‘he chosen one. Laufs picked ‘his one ‘o conq wi’h us. Kill ‘im an’ ‘ouch ‘he shield, I’ll ‘ake you ‘o ‘he one from ‘he prophecy.”, Hildr stares at the shield with exhaustion, after at the war witness, and with eyes locked on his she answers, “Nah.”. The General turns to face the hole in the wall from where a light flashes, lighting flies to her face, she parries it back outside, orange flashes, screams begin, gold shoots towards her and she grabs the golden panther by the throat, but she doesn’t grab the debris that fly inside when the beast destroys the wall. Blue silhouettes appear deflecting pieces of the brick wall away from the present, disappearing next. The skinny mansir now gazes upon the most incredible vision of his life, everything seems to fall into place as the moving golden panther looks exactly like the miniature piece he holds. “I am the chosen one?”, he thinks to himself, looking at Mist but immediately looking around, lowering his head. Sif laughs at herself. Hildr grabs Álvaro’s hand and joins the sword hilt with the godslayer’s behind, where its tail would be, following that the golem monster begins to disappear and a curved blade forms from the hilt, a golden belt and sheath also form. Staring at the tower shield the General hammers down, “The prophecy can conquer itself.”, to which the shield vanishes.

Pitch tenebrosity surrounds the lone breathing immerse in everlasting silence. In and out, forward and backward movement of the chest, even though it feels cold the air is shy, transparent gas leaving shivering lungs, unreal. Up, down on the floor that can be felt but not seen and all around there is nothing but the certainty of one’s own heartbeat. This place is empty and dark but does not instill dread upon the breath either fear upon the eyes. Actually, it seems to put them at ease, the way air goes in and out so unhurriedly, the way the eyes pan around like this is a familiar place. The silence is good, means no threats, means no tasks, means peace. A desert for stimulus, the weird desire of feeling alive in nothingness, feeling rested inside the void. “Hello, dear uncle.”, a voice jumps out of nowhere, the breathing ceases and the eyes scan around, the hands search for a weapon which is not there. The nose pulls air again and the mouth acts, “If we are family, why do you hide? Show yourself, woman.”, the ears caught the voice tone and the mind searches around itself for a family member… but tis all fuzz. A female walks out of the blackness, first the left foot, barefoot, and the leg is covered with crimson woven pants, wide pant legs, joining the hip, and going up to the shoulders revealing the garment is a romper jumpsuit dress with a long v-neck. There is something different about her body, her bones appear to be the tissue closer to the skin, forming a shell, and the muscles are the inner tissue; then when the muscles contract her limbs seem thin, and when the muscles expand it feels like the body inflates. A strip of cloth goes around the waist below the bosom shaping the dress closer to the body, long arm sleeves, tighter than the leg pants, cling to the skin. Her skin is dark gray, her eyes are normal except for the iris which is clear yellow, long red wavy hair gathers on the back of her pointy ears, small bony nose with a hump, cleft chin, she smiles and waves a hand. She is Mareridt Nanabald, the first child of the Scorpion, the matriarch of Svartalfheim, goddess of nightmares, and dreams, even though she never appears on the latter. “I know you don’t remember me.”, she says smiling, and it is bothersome, what a know-it-all. “Of course I do, you are niece Mar.”, upon hearing the answer she claps using the fingers of one hand and the palm of the other hand, lifting herself with the tip of one foot, throwing the opposing foot backward. Coming up with a correct answer froze the mind with surprise, the calm feeling shook away in a jolt. “Well done, uncle! And do you remember who you are?”, she lowers her head and her shoulders. She doesn’t feel familiar at all, the heartbeat drums a strong tune, this starts to feel like a trap. In and out goes the wraithlike gas exchange, now white as a cloud, as the brain digs around what the new answer is, the eyes close, deep breaths, and finally the eyes open and a smile forms. “I am the god of wind.”, upon hearing that the woman starts laughing and her voice tone plunges as she goes on laughing, she stares with blackened eyes and retorts, “YES… YOU… ARE.”. Her teeth are millions of needles, her breath hurts even the eyes, her nails enlarge right out of her gray skin, sharp as knives. Semi-blind with tearing eyes from the burning stench of her toxic wheeze, the breathing changes to the mouth, and the taste is nauseating. “What is happening?”. The image of that woman crawls closer and closer, the heart whips and commands to run, she starts screaming, widening her jaw, her limbs stretch like lightning and the sharp fingers drill into the chest. A scream! The body is dragged closer to her mouth and is eaten in one bite. Gullbein wakes up in a jump and starts splashing against the water, it enters his mouth and he coughs in desperation and confusion. A hand covered with armor grabs his arm and squeezes it, he turns to it, draws his sword and searches for a face. Moddie is looking at him unfazed, his sword stops and he tries to recollect his thoughts and his breathing. They are both floating in the water, the gray waters, their wet bodies are dirty with wet ash that gets stuck like thirsty leeches. Side by side, they hold onto the shinning wooden staff that seems to be connected in some sort of magical way to the floating teardrop, being pulled by the droplet, so it’s like a weird carriage. The siblings intertwined their arms around the wooden staff and started floating like so. They stayed like that for some time then Gullbein decided to take a nap, given the situation. Gullbein sheathes his weapon and returns to his resting position, lying down on the body of water. “How long?”, asks the white aesir, turning his head to the side and approaching his right hand to his face, splashing some water on to give it an awakening wash. With his eyes closed, he hears something lift from the water and several droplets fall on him, then opens his eyes to see his sister’s gesticulation. “Seven minutes? And yeah that was also new to me. Never felt scared in my life.”, her left hand stays above his face and after a few moments gesticulates again, “What? No, Moddie. The world poison was healed.”, she insists and gesticulates some more, “Do you think so? Midgardian diseases of the mind…”, she answers yes on her way, “Alright, I trust you. Can you heal me?”, she repeats the gesture. Gullbein grabs her hand and kisses it, then their eyes meet and they smile. Both aesir feel startled when the wooden staff lifts in the air, carrying them along, and the völva looks around and releases the staff. Gullbein loses his balance and adjusts himself to a vertical position but the floor is too shallow, so he ends up sitting down, standing up after. Water splashes around by the cinder beach of a modest island, the droplet slides down in the air to meet the ash sands and the last hero of Asgard stays dirty, watching the droplet do it again, remembering, trembling without feeling cold. A hole starts to form, cinder makes space so the droplet can descend further down, and the hole is covered, the splashing stops, and eyes find each other in silence. Gullbein notices his sister’s trembling when she stands still, when she messes up carving her staff with runes, when she stares back at him with overflowing eyes, but he is afraid to ask what is wrong. Afraid to ask and hear the answer: “You.”. “That must be the midgardian disease of the mind”, he imagines, “Right you are.”, he turns to the voice behind and his eyes jump. Mareridt is standing by the end of the beach, the waters touch her feet, she smiles and her smile is a normal one, but Gullbein is ready to defend himself. “I’m not here. I’m in your mind.”, the red-haired svart tries to remedy the confusion on her uncle’s face, “What do you mean you’re in my mind?”, the white god has his hand on the hilt of his weapon and locked eyes on the monster female, Nanabald points with a face tilt to Moddie, Gullbein turns in a quick motion to his sister and right back to his niece, Moddie gesticulates but he misses it. “What’s that Moddie?”, upon turning back to face his niece the pale god doesn’t see her anymore, she vanished. His hand goes to his head and his face contorts, he groans in pain. Hreidmar, again, sends the dragons away and moves his lips, without words vibrating out of them, and from the nidavell’s back, over the shoulder, his niece sprouts her head, smiling: “Our intents are connected, because you accepted my plead for help. I have a very strong hugr, but no lik to house it. Do you remember my people?”. Gullbein opens his eyes and there is a floating pile of cinder gathered in the shape of a circling sphere, Moddie calls him and gesticulates, then makes her golden armor piece shine again, pushing the fog away. The white aesir looks at the cinder sphere and strong winds start sweeping around it while his sister raises her gauntlet and the web symbol flashes in a pattern of specific lines forming an uruz rune. All around them reflections appear, shooting back the light from the armor piece, small metal objects, one of those appears close by, emerging from inside the cinder, a golden ring. All of the golden rings are one band of a hammered gold ring, while the original ring, nowhere to be seen here, is a group of three bands of hammered gold rings interlaced together. Each ninth night upon being worn the original ring creates eight more ring bands that fall from it, generating riches. This is the power forged within the gifted artifact. “The draupnir?”, Gullbein looks around in shock, “How long have you been down here? All these rings…”, Moddie smiles and gesticulates with endearing eyes at her concerned sibling, “This is our way out? So the rings create a path? Ingenious. And… there is more to that, really?”, as she carries on moving her hands, “One ring will be used to call the… Vard. Okay then.”. Confusion paints all sorts of expressions on Gullbein’s white semblance, he feels a cold thing on his chest, his sister feels so much distant from him. She was simpler, that one all burnt down on the floor, but maybe even then she was not reachable. The heat seems to have stayed. A blue flame on each of her eye holes, but burning for what? She feels a lot like him, like father, and maybe standing by his shadow all this time had sealed her fate, casting a grim prophecy over her life. One of the rings floats close to the spinning gust around the cinder sphere, “Yes, I understand.”, says Mareridt as swift as she moves closer to the remains of her father, Gullbein sees Moddie commanding her actions with gestures thrown out randomly. This overwhelming sensation chokes him, this woman, both these women, seem too sure of what to do, like female predators, lionesses roaming the cold night with eyes locked on what is already dead, whatever it is. The white male and the monster of the pit are mere students of this certainty, bathing on this naked light, admiration to no end. The völva voices something to the staff and hits it on the ground, a hammered gold ring floats and bursts into light. The light rises forming a pillar and out of it comes a specter. Translucent white with a timid gleam, it is undoubtedly Curly by the way it walks and observes the remaining beings, but it feels incomplete. As the light pillar disappears the lady of nightmare reports, “The fylgja is here, can you see it? Do I cut my hand now? And where do you want the blood?… Ok then.”, the redhaired aesir instructs with her hand as she shakes the other as it wobbles relaxed, to warm it, feels like. “This is happening.”, the aesir male is convinced of the capacity of his sister, and the fright he experienced in the past now translates as a sadness. She evolved, she grew, she became so much more and all of that in the moments where the fog destroyed the rune on her mind. All these eons Gullbein did not prepare at all, he just kept the same for as long as the nights and days could jump over him, and they did. Ragnarok is supposed to be a big deal, but most folk eventually moved this event from their minds and lives. Now is the time to be ready, and those who are might be the ones who live through. Seeing Heremod just become this grown person in a brief moment is… inspiring. He returns to the moment with Moddie’s hand at his shoulder and her smile in front of his eyes, then her hand speaks, “Megin? Sure, I have plenty.”. And that is, in fact, the reason why Gullbein is so respected, why Mareridt chose to shelter on his hudr, and why he is so loved by so many. He is always doing good and looking at others, and the tale of how his eyes reach so far beyond talks about how he looks upon others more than himself. He is strong, but stronger for fighting fair, and honorable, but even more honorable for gazing without malice and speaking without ill intent. For those who don’t know him, it is easy to find awe in front of his person by how much megin he emits, by how much his presence feels like gull, like all others with that title. The cinder sphere pulsates and starts changing shape, forming what seems to be a skeleton, Gullbein’s palms pointed at it. “Calc.”, the armor on Moddie’s arm skins off little by little, the scraps join up in a golden blob until it is the size of her fist. The blob then shapes itself to the form of a valknut, “The knot which holds all the essences of a being together, and it is severed on the funeral ceremony. I have never seen one of those.”, Nannabald approaches with wide yellow eyes, and then Moddie starts wording something that really scares her brother. “Wait, Moddie! Those words… this is the chant… the second merseburg charm! How?!”. Right after finishing the charm Moddie joins her hands in a hand flute and begins blowing into it, but not producing a melody, just vibrating the air. The lady of nightmare cuts her arm with her nails, blood flies towards the cinder mass as the air vibrates, somehow landing on the cinder and mixing with it. Ashes regenerate into bone tissue, then organs, then muscle, the golden valknut becomes what it is on every folk, a heart, the knot of veins, but it is made of gold, mistletoe is seen where the heart should be and the golden heart mixes gold and green, the Vard stands where the physical body stands, a blue silhouette with armor, carrying a sword, resembling Nanna, walks from Mareridt’s side then stands next to the Vard. The circling wind whirlpools faster and faster, ashes fly everywhere going into Gullbein’s eyes. “This is the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.”, he thinks to himself covering his face, then it starts becoming quiet again, winds crumble into a breeze, the eyes open… and there’s Curly. Pale naked skin, a disorganized fluff of body hair all over it, a body of modest size (1,62 m / 5,31 ft), defined muscles, red hair in big curls on the top and a buzz cut on the sides and back, medium red beard, blue eyes, long upturned nose with a strong tip and oval nostrils, big mouth with big teeth and thin lips which form a scary smile, hairy hands, hairy shoulders, hairy ears, hairy feet with disproportional toes. On the beating chest of this pristine white male’s skin, there is a crack, a hole, right where his heart is, from where sprouts mistletoe, different sorts of flowers and some leaves. This is Baldur Odinson, the invincible, the wisest aesir and first hero of Asgard, the god of time. Baldur stared at Moddie ever since he understood how he got back, blue eyes like hers, with stumbling breathing, with golden glow shooting out of the hole on his chest. The moment all of it fits into his reasoning the first hero of Asgard stares at the last hero of Asgard, flooded in disbelief. “Oh Heremod, what have you done?”, and with her eyes, she tells him. The white mist of the ashen shores fades from pure white to frightening black, next the waters begin to boil, vapors steaming from the deep waters. The ash lights up in orange and starts burning the feet of everyone, then the female aesir commands her gauntlet, dissipating the embers around her and the others. Moddie fetches her wooden staff, commands the smoke away from her surroundings then as the curtain of black disappears the god of time utters, “She is here.”.

A hammer hits the metal, a door closes, older folk cough, jolly voices sprout energy. Poriferous gray stone shelters the sounds of this place, laughter for the most part, far away echoing joy, like a desire for hope, a fight in pursuit for it. Light gray stone with imperfect decorations, bent shields hanging on stone brick walls, destroyed pillars standing as they were supporting this place through an ethereal force, walls with holes all over like the smile of a youngster. A sight of a battle fought and lost, where the pain of defeat left scars everywhere, scars of the first war where allies joined the wrong side. If anything of metal is out for display, it’s not polished, if anything of wood is out for display, it’s not varnished, and portraits of the king who ruled at that time are nowhere and will be nowhere for display. Any joy that is had is caused by the amusing thing that just happens, someone slips and falls, hits their head, burns their tongue, because only involuntary joy is permitted. Without pride restored, there will be no joy to any face, without reparatur there cannot be any old days, regular days. The current king forces this place to be a constant memory of defeat, for it might inject morale towards the next battles. Most of the imperfections seem to have been mended, if that is a word for it, with vegetation and gardening decorations covering them, big leaves and vines that only but magically covered holes, some ornamented with all variety of flowers; and tree trunks connecting broken pillars, some fruitful. For the most part, this place has an architecture designed to accommodate different sized folk, a big and modest type of folk and a rowdy and messy another type, smaller type. The most crowded area is usually the entrance corridor, the place from where troops return, and the area that connects the more populated rooms. The predominant part of this corridor is wide and tall to accommodate the bigger folk, whereas one side of it was comprised of five levels of equal spaces to accommodate smaller folk. The corridor goes on for some leagues until it ends at the throne hall. Along the corridor, several doors to the sides lead to other quarters, bedrooms, washes, and armories. Immense doors on one side and much tinier doors on the opposing side. The first doors starting from the entrance are the armories, then there are bedrooms and then the washes, closer to the throne hall. It was a corridor for armies to march out and in, a sizable stretch of design, with pagan wall shrines built on the stone of the wall, between doors on each side, built into the wall, filled with allusive imagery sculpted on the shrine arch and by the floor and center usually there is a place for an object portrayed on the imagery as well as scraps of paper, broken objects, burnt candles, etc. The bigger shrines usually make reference to all sorts of older evidence of the jotunnar clan, the two-handed ax masters, the wisest folk, the masters of riddles, masters of council, masters of strategy, the children of Muspell and children of the rock. On the opposing side, there are smaller but still impressive shrines with imagery, objects, together with artifacts referring to old tales of the smaller folk, nidavellir, the masters of smithing, masters of taming dragons, their kin, their brothers, clansmen of the forge, of engineering, of machines. Some of what is considered to be the treasure of the nidavellir folk are at the display by pagan shrines with statues that encapsulate the tale behind the crafting of the artifact. Only what was crafted as a gift is considered an artifact, being that artifacts of service, serving as payment for a debt, are not included in the hall of artifacts. Two notable shrines are those who have females as statues, one statue made of crystal, and another made of pure gold and precious gems. The golden female statue represents Sif Nerthusjarson, it is a bald female figure with the scalp missing, and the insides on her head are made from precious gems. Her gift was the golden crown that became one with her hair. The statue is strong and muscular, standing in a fighting stance and stares forward without fear. The crystal female statue represents Freyja Igunar with her precious yet fragile body, the ultimate treasure. The statue of the vanir female has a slim, delicate body, standing on the tips of the feet, arms crossed against the chest and the head is dismembered. The neck detaches from the body with the head floating above it, held by the metallic hair that reaches to the floor in a wide descending spiral around it. The back of her neck was kept on the lower part of the statue to show, along with markings on the bosom, that a necklace is to be placed on the statue. The Brisingamen, the necklace that would tame the vanir general on her most feral moment. It was a gift crafted as a thank you for keeping good relations with the nidavellir folk, during peace, as well as the nidavellir clan, during the war. A mysterious figure stands in front of the Vanadis’ statue, staring at her, at where the artifact would be on that sculpture. Yellow eyes linger over the neck of the statue, on the shrine for the artifact there are candles lit which show better the tale leading to the crafting of this gift, as well as what it does. A cold draft passes his feet, causing him to shiver and throw his hood over his wavy cornrows, that added to his goatee matched well his lightskin appearance. He is completely covered with a hunt club green military overcoat jacket that drags on the floor and seems to ooze out a black mist. The hood is the same color, somehow connected with this bigger clothing piece. This jacket carries the image of a spider on the back of it, sewn on the center of the back with silver line, hardly perceptible. The silver lines appear more easily on sleeves, lapels, also on the edges in general. He pulls the jacket’s sleeves over his hands, releases them then as through magic the hands are wearing dark gloves. The male inhales phlegm from his nubian nose, with a wide nasal base, broad tip, and a wide bridge. Thick lips that only speak in whispers for his loved one, of for commands he doesn’t fully understand. Hands friction together, biceps, triceps, deltoids showing strength, joined by the chest muscles under the black silk tight dress shirt. Black silk charmeuse trouser pants that shine and the belt has an oval hoop where he sheathes or hangs weapons he chooses to use depending on the feeling. Black leather shinning shoes that stand and walk completely muffled on the black mist. This tall (1,75 m / 5,74 ft) male is Elegast, the unknown alf, chosen king of Svartalfheim, Mareridt’s spouse. A blonde crystalline female stands to Elegast’s right, her see-through body is thin and small (1,50 m / 4,92 ft), her hair is cut on a choppy straight bob cut, her right eye is green and her left eye is blue, she wears polished silver armor on her arms and torso, a pleated yellow skirt down to her ankles and silver greaves. She carries a long spear. Running around by her feet there is an also ghost-like black brindle bull terrier, barking and jumping at her legs, protesting her lack of kisses. The dis left the alf’s side and began walking towards the main entrance, which usually means there is something interesting to see. Elegast walks to the end of the hallway, following his guardians, and stops by the image of a big upside-down ax blade sculpted on the wall. Of all the images on this place, this one is the best looking one, untouchable even after the war. Half a male face, half a bear’s face, huge, made of stone. A ceiling so high (10 m / 32,8 ft) any sound could start an echo, in addition the height seems to inspire warriors with violence to spare, since spears, as well as other sharp weapons, are often seen stuck up there. The male figure carved on the stone stretches one arm and holds a great ax, the hand holds the knob by its end and the ax head touches the floor far down. On the other half of the man’s face, the bear sinks its claws on a tree trunk, and the trunk descends along until it reaches the floor. The statue is an arch for a colossal door, and the door itself is a swirling vertical pool of cloudy haze, black foamy haze. The haze door starts vibrating with frantic waves, until bit by bit the black haze lines up straight and clears to reveal a smooth black surface, like glass. A small figure crosses, then another, on the next instant the gate breaks into the haze again returning to its usual state. The phantom guardian, as well as the fylgja, stand down when the first figure passes them, even bowing before that presence, and Elegast is able to see how much that nidavell shines as pure as the most beautiful crystal. An astounding amount of megin cascades out of this little one, intimidating even one’s breath to confront it. His black hair with hints of gray gets groomed by his quick motions, distinctly gesturing around himself, hands covered with rings and bracelets snaping thin static electricity jolts, a long robe with a long cape, wool pants and boots, masked with a rested expression denounced by his anxiety and pacing as a false one. This respectful male is Durinn, nidavell general, the lord elemental wielder of lightning and rocks. Some steps behind him walks a less impressive little one, with grease and coal smudged fingers, elbows, knees, and feet. The dis and the fylgja bring out their weapons or fangs to this one, Elegast stares at the bald red-haired nidavell observing no light at all, as if he stared at a general without badges, without feats, someone who perchance traded his glory for something, now only having shame together with guilt as his trophies. His leather overalls are beaten up, his only garment, his face masks nothing, his anger jumps out for all to see. He is Dvalin, nidavell general, the lord elemental wielder of fire and metal. The fire and metal general turns his head to where the ghost-like characters stand, Elegast now realizes that the color of this little one’s hair means something he tends to forget. Zap! All turn to the direction Durinn was to catch a glimpse of the electricity trail on the rock structures to the right, coming from the gate, with the nidavell general flying to the last floor upwards. Elegast returns his gaze to Dvalin only to lock eyes as he stands right in front of him, brown eyes plunging into the yellow ones, at that moment the alf’s heart drums stronger as there is a feeling of fear in that glance. “You are a master burglar, or something, right? Come with me, would you?”, the fylgja barks with disturbing excitement and the dis stands beside the nidavell, waiting for her master’s resolve. The fact his dis went for the entrance door seems clearer now. Elegast nods, they all turn towards the throne hall, the silence from that moment on as the group approaches the hall reveals many are gathered by the circular tables of the dinner section to the further left of the hall, coming from the gate. The throne hall is a vast circular space with staircases to the sides, leading down where the metal clanging sound comes from, and some circular metal vents on the floor from where hot smoke constantly rises. Above the vents there are big barbecue grates with meat and insects on, the grates then are taken and put on one of many circular tables that have warriors sat next to each other. They all differ in size, and there is only one female in this group, she also eats even after gazing initially with some distaste. The stone floor fills up only the first half of the room, the following half is an empty space that, from the bottom to the ceiling, brims with gold and precious stones. An unimaginable quantity of gold, known by all folk as Andvari’s treasure pile. Several giants gather sitting on the floor, weapons by their side, some nidavell join up at a table, shinning with megin, yet the one who draws caution to the eye is the blonde female. Her height (1,90 m / 6,23 ft) is one of the aspects of her uniqueness, along with the fact she has eight disir guarding her, eight female wraiths distributed along this place, watching every corner and door, whispering all sort of things into her ears. A metal ear wrap in the shape of a dragon goes from the top of her right ear and grabs along the back of it, sticking its head from the end of the ear lobe. On the left ear, there is an ear reamer made from a diamond cut in a circle shape. Clear blonde hair, fading into white, keeps up on the back of her head in a big hair bun, pinned with a golden hair stick designed with several carvings and shapes. A green silk hooded cloak covers her feminine body, and nothing else. Her face and hands are always visible, a face and hands with lines to them, thin white skin with visible green veins, and a drained appearance to them, along with an equally dry face, her body appearing to be just skin and bone, no meat. Nonetheless, she still is a very attractive female. Sometimes her legs emerge from the inside of the cloak, the hint of an invitation always rushes through the mind of the male in front of her, but that being the case she is the one who makes a move. Their eyes would be found by hers, her green eyes, with thin eyebrows raising as a provocation, then she bites her fat lips, smiles right after and they are into her charm, hook, line and sinker. Like a bulge in the face, her thick skin nose attracts stares who bring to this female’s mind her favorite charade: where this male will look at next, my eyes or my lips. It’s a game, at least now it is, and she is grateful to the nidavell who freed her to feel this way. She is Nerthus Igunar, goddess of spring, matriarch of Vanaheim, general of the nidavell clan, master of the ingwaz rune, former aesir, and mother of jarsons. Igunar notices the recently formed group entering the hall as she bites off half of a cockroach, “Would you go to my chambers later?”, the low reluctant voice coming from this boasting nidavell, this killer, makes her heart scream ‘yes’, however her lips translate otherwise. “I’ll think about it.”, and he bows. The nidavell male (1,30 m / 4,26 ft) walks towards the middle of the hall as green eyes start ripping off the red fur cape, teeth bite the lip as they were biting the crepe grey shirt and pulling it off the same time the nose smells the skin, last the hands clenched as they were grabbing the brown leather pants to rip the middle and swallow the prize. Hairy hands that knew how to touch her, hairy feet that just hung there, pretty. Ash brown wavy hair like a lion’s mane, shaven clean face with thick sideburns, clear blue eyes which turn red on a regular basis, medium nose with an overly thin bridge and bulbous tip, beautiful smile. This male is Hreidmar, king ruler of nidavellir, king of the nibelungs, lord elemental wielder of all unliving things. Upon seeing his general walk alone to the warzone, feeling the force of those footsteps, the king realizes a decision had been made. Hreidmar grabs a cup of beer, next walks to his room while searching for the buttocks of a goddess with his free hand, and he finds it. Dvalin’s head turns when he senses his king moved closer, this is not a time for shaking words, but it seems the feeling is mutual. Yet now the question comes to mind, ‘Why isn’t the king joining the battlefield?’, perhaps there are more important battles. Anyways, there is a reason this one was born a general and not a king, he concludes. The nidavell and the alf miss the commotion going on further at the banquet for this group isn’t headed to the dinner section but to the opposite side, where troops walk inside a water pond forming on the stone floor. Without ceremony, Elegast and Dvalin jump together inside the water and darkness engulfs their senses, with the only sensation being the feeling to flip upside-down as they sink. Arms together with legs swing, finding only one another, panic fades in until finally, their senses touch reality again as they emerge the waters in a jump, falling on green crystal-like rocks. Raging waters hit big walls, splashing bubbly green currents on the pair as they regain their senses. Strong waters blast against walls like they were blasting inside one's ears. Elegast rubs his eyes, his fylgja’s bark echoes together with the long ringing inside his head, his clothes feel heavy and the screams above, explosions above, trembling on his legs, all merge together into silence to which a terrifying voice ruptures, “What’s your answer, dwarf?”. Yellow eyes stretch in terror, those green eyes in front of him bring meaning to the bark, the single bark, the warning bark, of course. So many years, it should be more than implied what the fact his fylgia just stops being a noise factory meant, but Elegast tends to forget it. Slick back bob black hair, short on the back but with longer hair in the front and sides, with nice volume on the top and stuck to the head on the sides. Thick curved eyebrows, button nose with slightly upturned tip and wide nostrils, thin heavy upper lips always holding a cigarette in between them, square ears with golden earrings. The 1,58 m (5,18 ft) tall and chubby valkyrie wears a black patchouli long quilted jacket, a bronze female breastplate top, a black high waist pencil skirt that reaches to the knees with a black bow on the middle, and black stiletto high heels. This valkyrie is Hrist, valkyrie general, rank 1, the recruiter of kings, the golden valkyrie. “Gulldrengr, I wasn’t expecting you.”, the nidavell stares at those green suns like it is nothing, like he had a minimum fracture of that mountain of megin just bombarding everyone else, like the fact this valkyrie stands alone in a warzone is for no reason, as if she is being ignored. She is not, she is being avoided, there are enemies that forgot completely about everything else and just focus on being out of her sight. “Well, my answer is that I will follow my king to death. I trust you understand what that means.”, the dis kneels beside the alf, facing the valkyrie, her spear on the green crystal floor, the solution is just waiting for the moment she goes somewhere else so her megin stops crushing his mind. “Very well.”, and with that said the valkyrie jumps away. Elegast hears his companion sigh and look up, though immediately the nidavell screams in frustration, enticing the alf’s curiosity. “Alberich is here?! Oh conq me in the earholes!”, and Elegast smiles at the sight of a shining red dragon jumping from tree to tree, projecting its golden tongue towards vanir folk, then it turns to the valkyrie, who lands in front of it, takes the cigarette out of her mouth and along with the smoke streaming out it is heard the name “Arthur.”.

A flame snaps in the distance, the light from the flame paints the dark stone with a hue of orange, spreading along the floor. The light touches thin chips of wood and dust which land like a soft breeze on the stone and join a good amount of piled up material. A blade scratches a wooden surface, severing skin-like wood chips, running along with the wood piece, chiseling and shaping a long branch into a staff. A knife. It has a very thin handle, as thick as a regular mansir’s pinky finger, that is long and twists on itself, towards the blade, making a handle similar to a teacup handle, but it leaves a gap, it doesn’t connect. Even so, it is long enough for the hand that grips it, perfect size, as it was made for this hand. The blade’s length is half the handle size, and the width is the same size. The left hand holds the twist handle knife and the right hand feels the piece around, feeling rough edges and splinters. A light-brown leather glove covers the left arm from the hand to the elbow, the forearm is visible. A scarlet and rugged thin membrane seems to cover the completely visible muscle fibers, reaching to the tip of the shoulder. Veins run along the skinny arm like a land bridge amid a raging red ocean. Irregular red skin like uneven patches on a cloth piece, like rubbery red skin that was put on a blender and stuck together. Seeing it burned the mind, tssss!, the idea of the pain that must have been felt. On the other arm, a pearly hand holds and swings the wood piece around, holding it straight and hitting it on the ground, forcing it, putting weight on it. A skinny pale arm with pulsating and healthy muscles, long delicate fingers with dirty oval fingernails and a thick palm and thick fingertips. Ivory skin was rare on this body, the right arm, the face, and the feet. The rest of that body was a mixture of burn marks and long cuts, deep ones, those where the muscle regenerates asymmetrically. An outside eye would most likely catch the one closest to the face though, the big cut scar on the left side of the head, right above the ear, where no hair would grow, and that side of the head had a buzzcut. The hair was red and long, reaching down to the slim waist of that tall female figure (5,9 ft/1,80 m), the same height of her new crafted wood staff. She wears a well-fitted dark brown apron dress that covers her bosom, reinforced wool stripes go from the bosom in the front of the dress to the back over the traps and cross each other, meeting the dress cloth in the waist, revealing a bit of her scarred and burnt back. Her naked feet push the wood scraps and dust together into a pile, pushing forward and feeling the texture of the dark stone with the tip of her toes, pushing sideways and feeling the wood dust with the bottom of the foot, rubbing the outer arch of the foot on the stone. The craft of that wooden staff could feel boresome to most, but to this female, it was a profound process. Lying on the end of the bench next to her was her old wooden staff, which had followed her on the last journey she embarked on, a long, long time ago. It was scarred and beaten and burnt, just like her. Runes carved on it, torn and bloodied leather tied around the height where she would be holding it, carrying a story, carrying a lesson, just like her body did. She had been there, carving the staff, ever since the horn made itself be heard because it meant something. She had a new task in order, and the lessons learned were now in her memory, in the alertness of her senses, in the jump of the corner of her light blue eyes, in the sound droplet of danger that reached her pale ears, in the response time of her skinny, beaten, cut and torn muscles. After all this time there was much lost in the mist of her mind, however, what she was doing and why had always been clear to her, always. The most important lesson her destroyed skin and muscles taught her came to mind, as it does in times like this. “Always trust yourself”. She didn’t know why she was doing it, but the ages showed whys proved to be the first thing to let go of. There was a name for that thing in her stomach, an old name, or at least it seemed to, a blurry name, a slippery one, known, right there, but… untouchable. She pricks her right index finger with an iron hair stick, holds the finger over the wood dust and scrap pile, the blood weights down, drops on the top of the pile and with the iron stick in her left hand she draws the Uruz rune in the air, pointing to the origin of the flame in that room. And then, amazingly, like a vicious swarm of moths, one by one, the grains of wood dust and scrap shoot in the direction of the flame, feeding it. Blood runes, the craft of the witches, the völvas. While that happens the red-haired female spins her hair around itself using her hands and the iron stick, making a messy hair bun and sticking the piece through. Between the female and the brazier, she fed with wooden wastes there is a table, a long table with long benches on each side. Dark wood, sturdy and strong, enough to endure years of banquets. On the other end of the long table, on the opposing bench, three other females were sitting, one who was too big for that piece of furniture so she sat on the ground next to it, and they had been discussing ever since the wooden staff was merely a tree branch. “Heremod! Come here.”, says the female in the middle of that group, between the old valkyrie and the voluptuous jotun female, a hooded figure. The red-haired woman, Heremod, hangs the twist handle knife on her leather belt, a thin brown leather belt that shapes her waist and hip, passing the blade through the back of the belt so it doesn’t touch her skin, and it hangs next to a gray woolen birka bag. Then she grabs the new wooden staff and the old one and walks towards the lit brazier. Steady paced muffled footsteps approach the trio in the opposite side of the table, the three pairs of eyes follow Heremod as she approaches, but doesn’t look back, instead she looks at the brazier. Right as she crosses past through the three females the hooded figure hammers her fist on the table, “Stop!”, but it’s no use and Heremod keeps to her walk as the orange flame gets brighter and warmer to her. She arrives at the brazier and embraces the old staff with her right forearm, keeping it close to her and far from the flame, then she holds the new crafted staff with her left hand over the raging flame. The staff starts drying, darkening, and Heremod turns the side or moves to the next part of the staff, to get an even effect. “Are you aware of where your naked feet are about to step into?”, the hooded figure stands besides Heremod, “This direction you are headed will turn you into something completely new. Is this truly your desire, daughter?”, the wood starts snapping and her owner examines it, “Do you still resent me, after all the ages that passed? No one sent you there, you decided to go! You almost died, and now… you are going again?!”, and the redhaired witch finally looks at her, her thin nose with a narrow bridge and round tip has wood dust on it, the hooded figure reaches with her hand and taps on it with the tips of her index and middle fingers, Heremod’s light blue eyes don’t move from the stare, neither her lantern jaw, neither her dead lips which only had smiles and kisses to give. After a long stare, she gives the hooded figure a nod and turns back to her affairs. Both of them now watch in silence, listening to the fire and to the wooden staff, until the piece finally makes a big snap and cracks. Heremod takes a step back, lowers the cracked piece to her bleeding finger and squeezes some drops inside the cracks, the hooded figure only watches. Now she switches the staffs and embraces the new and cracked wooden staff with her right forearm, and with her left hand, she holds the old staff diagonally, supporting its heel with her right foot, then steps on its middle with her left foot. The hooded figure removes her green silk hooded cloak while Heremod steps closer to the brazier and throws the old staff inside it, and she holds the new staff on the path of the smoke it starts forming from the burning of the old one. Some of the smoke appears to be sucked inside the cracks. Heremod feels a pair of delicate hands going around her neck from her back, white hands with skin that reminded crunchy autumn leaves, covering her shoulders then tying a not below her neck. “This was expertly crafted by Ivaldi, the greatest king of all. It has a purpose and a meaning. After you become new, those who wear similar hoods might know how to guide you.”. Heremod looks at her gifted garment as it stretches itself to touch the ground, it feels very warm inside of it, and with her hand, she mimics a gesture. A yellow smile opens, clouded green eyes light up and the woman under the hood speaks with a shaken voice, eyes watering a bit, “Oh, I thought you were giving me the silent treatment. Finally some words!”. The old female hugs the red-haired woman, as she could touch her at last, as she has been chasing her in a never-ending nightmare. Heremod doesn’t embrace her in return, the tall female just lets the one who used to be her mother sob by her chest, as she stares at her white curly hair. The old female is Frigg Nerthusjarson, goddess of fatality, wife of Alfödr and head jarson of aesir. The red-haired female is Heremod Friggjarson, last hero of Asgard, second völva (witch) of Asgard and Alfödr’s servant, who was relieved of her servant duties after the sounding of the horn. Heremod turns her eye towards the door at the left side of the throne area, from which footsteps start echoing, then a male enters the mead hall. The throne area of the mead hall had three thrones with fine-looking high tables between them, where there was food on metal platters, horn cups, and glass pinchers, filled with wine. The male sits on the first throne he passes, the one to the center throne’s right, the biggest throne of the three, which makes sense given his 10 ft (3,04 m) height. He is semi-nude, a shining blue silk sheet is wrapped around his waist, covering pelvis and legs and dragging through the stone floor. His skin is white and hairless, his muscle tone is built to the maximum and, added to his athletic build, give him an intimidating appearance. He has brown short and messy hair, shaved clean face, brown eyes, down-turned tip nose, big smile, sharp chin and an annoyed expression which seem carved on his face at all times. He is Magni Donarson, the god of power. Magni starts tapping his foot, “Jarson!”, he yells, Heremod looks at him but he doesn’t seem to be asking for Frigg, nor her. His eyes aim at someone specific, who aims right back at him. “Jarson! Serve me!”, Heremod looks at the long table and Skadi stood up and walks towards him. That giant woman seems the most suited person in the room to serve the needs of that giant man, even though she is 1 meter (3,28 ft) taller. The jotun left her bow, arrows and white fur cape at the floor near the table, and it felt like her naked body wanted to burst out of that light brown leather tight suit by how she looked at that man. This giant woman was the gracious slayer, the daughter of Thjazi, the gargoyle, and Nerthus Igunar, goddess of spring. She loved that giant man, whom she could not harm, no matter how hard she hit him, no matter how hard she crushed and choked and smothered him. He always smiled and said “More.”. This woman is Skadi Nerthusjarson, Snowshoe, the goddess of hunt and winter. Skadi climbs the three steps and kneels in front of Magni, “I am here…”, she sticks her tongue out, licks her lips in a circle, and whispers, “… your little piggy is here.”. Magni smiles, his legs spread open in front of her, she looks at his crotch and then back at him, biting the air slowly. She smiles, he smiles, then he sits up straight in a flash and stops smiling. “Something wrong, Lord?”, inquires Skadi to her lover, his eyes move in a quick motion to his left, and back at Skadi, who turns her head and sees Heremod kneeling next to her, more closely to the other throne, in the center. “I am already here, Friggjarson. There is no need for two to serve the Lord.”, Skadi stares at the kneeling völva with curiosity and confusion in her mind. Then, from the back of her ears, she hears it, “Stand aside, Sky-Challenger.”, Skadi trembles, her head turns to the opposite side, at the door right beside Magni’s throne and he is there. The 7,2 ft (2,2 m) tall man standing at the door at the left on the throne area, who also wears a bright silk sheet wrapped around his waist, but it is a purple one. The jotun woman and the aesir male lock eyes, her breathing feels like water on the beach floor right before a big wave, her jugular punches the skin of her neck, like it was screaming. He was the biggest male ever seen, he was a mountain, his eyes were all there was before nothing else after. The aesir male walks towards the middle throne, his wide and muscular body is full of hair and thick veins, on the arms, neck, and legs; like lighting is going through his white skin. Shoulder length red hair, full face beard, bulbous nose with a round tip, square wide jaw, sharp voice tone, and one blue eye, the right one, his left eye was whitened and the sclera was red. Above his left eye, there was a piece of flintstone, the size of his thumb, which was lodged in his head just above his eyebrow, looking like a tiny horn. He is Donar Odinson, king ruler of Asgard, the god of skies. Donar walks to the middle seat, Skadi jumps out of the way and kneels at the start of the steps with her head down, Magni nods but is ignored. Donar stops in front of the middle throne, with his back to it, and looks at the long table where his mother and general now stand up next to, they nod to each other, then he looks at his sister. “You are… Moddie. My… family.”, Donar blinks in long intervals, the image of that woman is interrupted and revealed several times like she was a blurred word expected to fix itself. “Speak.”, Moddie stands, climbs the steps, walks towards her brother and hugs him. “This is unmanly. Stop.”, Moddie crushes him with her arms, kisses him on the cheek and goes back down the steps. “I have… harvesting duties. The rain, the fields, Röskva’s people. They starve. Give me breakfast.”, Donar walks back and sits on the middle throne, it’s a throne made of brown stone, different from the other two, which were black stone ones. Moddie climbs the steps again and the left metal platter is handed to her, held by a giant hand. “You are a ruler. Put that down.”, Magni turns his eye and his father stares as he was an enemy, Moddie quickly takes the platter from him. Magni’s face was pure rubble since his father walked in the hall, and the female jotun resonates with his anguish. They still exchange eye contact and the sight of that king made the giant god without spirit, so he stands, grabs Skadi’s already risen hand and takes her back through the door he came from. The king ruler of Asgard watches his son leave, turns his head back and finds a metal platter at his lap, a horn cup in his left hand and his sister pouring wine into it from a glass pitcher. Roasted meat, bread, fruits, wild boar salted skin, a good variety filled up that metal platter and filled Donar’s belly a second later. “Speak already.”, these words feel like they are being spat out along with the food and wine drops, but that doesn’t seem to bother Moddie, who gesticulates with a smile and bright gaze at her brother, “An adventure? Now? Where?”, Moddie gesticulates with almost trembling hands, excited, “Help… Wallet Muncher? Wallet Muncher! I remember… Then go already.”, Moddie punches him, gesticulating with a disapproving look, “Take you there? Where?”, Moddie gesticulates, “Alright, Moddie.”. Donar throws the metal platter and horn cup in the air, doing to the remaining food and wine what his mouth was already doing anyway. The king ruler grabs Moddie’s hand and sits her in the arm of the throne, “Mother, clean this mess up.”. The throne fades away like the last breath of a peaceful death, and Moddie watches her mother get up and obey, as she used to, but not anymore, finally. Those days of servitude marked all over her skin now are over, and she will dedicate this freedom to her jailbreaker, her lovely youngster, Wallet Muncher.

An eternal vacuum of white, a ghostly void of cold death surrounds this place. The inverted mountain of death, the single structure that exists inside this empty reality, and in the highest center of which sits it’s ruler, Askr. Nine levels of giant places, labyrinths, things of dreams, or nightmares. Every invader falls at the first level, the Sorrow Sea, the queen’s domain, the peaceful sleep, still, just like the end of it all. To traverse to the next level one needs to find the door, roaming imperishably until then. Each level is a type of end among the possible ways to end it or to have it ended. And at the last level, guarding the door out, lies the beast, Nidhogg. The dragon might be hidden in the mist now, forgotten by most, but in the mind of a certain aesir, the maggot of the proto-giant is clear as day. Ashes scatter in midst of the thick fog, swirling, dancing. The Sorrow Sea appears frozen, still, most of it. The ash was piled up in this place in such a colossal amount it formed islands, some small, some wide and some long that went for miles and miles, like giant snakes. And there are giant craters, holes in the seafloor that create endless waterfalls, and the sound of the body of water collapsing into the perpetual white is the loudest sound it can be heard. The island where the ashes scattered was a long one. Some vibration is visible in the water, close to where the ashes started scattering. Something was interacting with that dead world, something alive. The thing that scattered ashes in the air, in the fog, was a swift movement upwards after plunging into the gray soil. A foot, then another foot. Fast-paced, linear. A pair of white feet, in and out, up and down, forward and back, strong legs, covered by red wool pants. Dark red pants, soaking wet, and gray, ashes stuck in it, moving with ease through the ashes even after the feet sank in it. By the left side of the pants, there was a leather sheath, medium-sized, strapped on a leather belt that held those pants up. Sweat drips down along a white torso, with some muscle tone to it, and by the belly part, there is a large circular mark the size of the belly, in the front and back, same sizes. Two gruesome scars, black and red and purple and green, like the skin had been burned and beaten, with black capillary vases all over and spreading out of it, slowly fading in on the skin. The torso moves at a fast pace, expanding and contracting, sweat mixed up with water from the Sorrow Sea, dripping from the body. Naked white arms move in synchrony with the legs, a sword is held in the right arm and, in the next seconds, thrown to the left, from the front or the back, then dropped in mid-air and grabbed, maneuvered in all sort of ways. Until the weight of it was in the back of the head and it felt like a part of the body, he would do this. It was strick coordination, running was one thing, simulating a battlefield was another. Sudden strikes, “Ho! Hoi! Heaah!”, picturing a foe to guide the weapon, quick sword throw from the back, left-handed stabs, “Ha! Hao! Hoea! Haaaa!”, holds the sword still, drops it, turns around mid-run and grabs the sword while running backwards, does a back-somersault, mid-twists in mid-air and lands a double-handed strike, “Heeeeeaaaaa!”. Standing still in the ash veil lifted from that landing, the man takes long breaths. It has been a long time. Searching for it, for everything, for the past, for who was it, that one in the memories, that one who killed those enemies. “How did he do it? How did the Gullbein from the past do it?”, he wonders. Fenrisulf had spared his friend from that horrible feeling: having the body, but not the memory of the body. How it moved, how it killed, how it avoided certain death. Centuries away from battles past, from the Gullbein who fought and won, from the sword that wrote his legacy, made the aesir feel like a stranger to himself. But the body would find itself, it had to. So he runs, searching for so much more… for who he needs to be. The direction where he is running to, however, is not random. There is another thing in the air. Not fog, not ash, but something that flies in a specific direction. A guide. A drop of water, a tear. Gullbein runs behind the teardrop he shed for his brother, trying to be ready, as much as he can, for his enemy. Nidhogg, the first lord elemental smithy of all unliving things, Ivaldi’s brother-in-arms, who went mad and turned into the real Ymir’s maggot. The dragon that maws Yggdrasil’s roots, and now might maw on the white god’s bones. That is not his fate, but it does not mean it can’t harm him. The Serpent taught him a most valuable lesson. The teardrop freezes its movement. The white god runs past it and then slows his pace to a full stop, then walks back to the floating water drop. Gullbein, covered in sweat and ashes, waits, waits, then sits, sheathes his sword, then lays down. It doesn’t move. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking of other things, forgetting about his dead brother. He was only told to shed a tear, that was all. The annoying part of it all is the noise in the vicinity, for he is close to a waterfall crater, and what the sound does in his ears becomes sculpted in his face. After some time he stands up and stares at it. Even though the greatness of nature is just the act of gods, sometimes it feels otherwise. For some reason, his hand finds his belly, the hole in him, made by the Serpent. This crater was also circular, and wide, the fear of falling feels like the fear of being in the Serpent’s grasp, the fear of being held in the darkness, having his armor removed and then… the pain was so much he fainted. He remembers the stabbing agony of the world poison, mental madness, coursing through his veins, and how terrifying Askr is for healing it. So much power on these triplets, and who is the one who is fated to kill their father? Heimdall, but the Heimdall of yore, not this farce. Gullbein exhales for a long period, then glances back at the teardrop, and it is moving in a breeze motion, along the border of the waterfall. The pale aesir merely watches since the crater now instills dread, falling would be terrible. Then he sees something, rising along the collapsing waters, something shiny, like gold. Not being able to sense Gjöll is both liberating and terrifying, and right now the mixed feeling is roaring. Without sudden movement, Gullbein readies his sword like a predator watching its prey, and just waits. It was coming in his direction for a while until the aesir sighs in relief when he can see clearly what ascends in the grayish waters. Relaxed, he goes to it. A golden root zigzags in his direction, which by his knowledge can only be good news, stopping when it touches the island’s soil. A brown rock starts to appear out of thin air, dissipating the fog around it, a stone in a shape of a big, tall, throne. Rough shapes and golden roots coming out of it and growing all around its uneven spaces. The ruler’s seat. Gullbein feels himself sinking into the ash soil, his bones feel heavy. Also, for some reason, now, upwards and far away, all around him, he can sense it again, Gjöll, all of it. Leaving this reasoning aside, Gullbein looks at the visible throne in front of him. Sitting on that throne is Donar, and sitting on its arm is Moddie. Both of those brothers of the white aesir have bright greenish sequences of runes that orbit around their heads, the unbreakable runes. However, the runes on his sister’s head seem different from the ones on his brother’s, more complicated. An instant flash returns to him as he glances at his sister… the last time he visited Niflheim, by the final level and by the door that leads out. She was unconscious and her left arm was covered by a layer of molten gold, some parts of it, and the whole hand was in flames and smoking. Hreidmar ordered the dragons away and said something… “What was it?”, his eyes swim in the swamp of that lost moment… and then he grabbed his sister and they went to Asgard. That Moddie of yore is long gone, and this one smiles at him, but he feels stained by his recklessness. That is one aspect of the old Heimdall he wishes doesn’t return, the stillness of it all, the boredom, the numbness. Gullbein walks towards them, nods to Donar, who nods back and says “Long time no see, Wallet Muncher.”, Gullbein laughs and bites with his golden teeth showing, for that name is warm and soft to the ears. Moddie runs at him, arms open, Gullbein opens his arms, she hits him with her body and he stands like a fortress, they close arms and squeeze, she kisses him all over his smiling face. “I shall be off then-”, utters the god of skies, Gullbein raises one hand in his direction, “Wait. Let me do something first.”, and Donar waits. The white aesir kisses his sister in the cheek, they smile, cease embracing and he fights his own weight that drags him into the grayish sands as he approaches the throne. Gullbein touches one of the golden roots on the ruler’s seat and it grows, it has a width of a usual mansir’s cup for drinking. He makes it grow and looks at Moddie’s staff, making the golden root grow to a similar size to the wooden staff, then separates it from the throne and steps back from it. Gullbein holds the golden root staff with both hands and speaks to it. “Calc! I command this power of mine to serve! This golden root which I command with my bones will now obey the one I appoint! My sister, Heremod, shall inherit the commanding of this staff, which was mine, and I relinquish, delegate! Calc!”, and with that said, the golden root staff shakes violently. “Moddie, this is a gift. The gold from the world tree is not metal gold, it’s godly gold. It cannot be destroyed nor enchanted in any way, only commanded by one with power over the forbidden rune. When you word the rune, it will be commanded. You are the master of the staff.”. Moddie smiles and gesticulates, Gullbein looks at her with a serious countenance, “It’s Ragnarok.”. She looks at him, at the root staff, nods, and holding her wooden staff touching the floor she words, soundless, “Isa”, making the wooden staff stand straight without any support after she releases it. Moddie extends her left arm out of her green cloak and takes off the leather glove that covers her left forearm and hand, pulling the leather piece by the tips which cover the fingers, revealing a forearm with close to no skin, where the muscle fiber is very visible, reddish, and her hand was also like that. She grabs the golden root staff with her right hand, puts the golden root staff against the back of her left hand and words, soundless, “Calc”. The trembling gold of the world tree piece emits a dim light and lifts bits of gray sand and the green cloak, together with Moddie’s hair, raise and behave as if immersed in calm waters. The golden root staff wraps itself around her left arm, going up to her shoulder, then it starts losing form. Like golden slime, it spreads evenly along Moddie’s left arm, after that it shapes up and hardens, becoming a set of armor pieces in her entire arm. Gauntlet, vambrace, colter, upper cannon, and pauldron. The armor has a rough polishing and divides itself to allow complete movement of all bodily joints. On the inside of the golden armor and under her clothes the skin becomes covered with golden double-layered chain mail, which forms itself upwards, covering her bosom and stopping at the neckline. The armor that forms downwards stops at the edge of her dress, strapping itself to the fabric on the edge of it, leaving her legs and feet unprotected. On her right arm, the golden double-layered chain mail self-crafts itself all the way to her right hand, leaving her fingers free. On the back of the fist, on the golden gauntlet, nine lines start to form. Three lines parallel to the arm’s length, three diagonally, left to right and more three, diagonally, right to left. Moddie squeezes the tip of her right index finger again, that turns red, a drop of blood comes out and lands on the lines on the back of the gauntlet, spreading evenly throughout the gaps. She looks at the lines, that now shine in a scarlet red, and smiles. The gold stops shinning and gravity returns from wherever it went, hiding the new gift between siblings. Donar stares at the circular mark with dark veins at his brother’s abdomen, and he seems distant, perhaps in the future. The white god looks at the king ruler of Asgard and nods at him, “I’m done.”, Donar blinks, back to the present, and nods back, “Let’s meet one last time, Wallet Muncher.”, Donar smiles, “I would like that.”, Gullbein smiles back, and the ruler’s seat vanishes. The golden root that came up from the waterfall crater starts shrinking back down again, and the fog around the pair which cleared moments earlier returns. Now the white god stands and watches as the fog fills up around his sister’s head, where lies the unbreakable rune, which dissipates like it was being eaten by the fog, and almost simultaneously Moddie’s eyes get wider and wider. Moddie’s smile crumbles into a very serious expression, she looks at her brother and gesticulates, her breathing carries tons, “What? I gave you the last piece of the puzzle? The golden root, you mean?”, she moves her face from one side to the other and gesticulates again, “No. I gave you command over the forbidden rune. Ok. How does that help?”. Moddie grabs her wooden staff, which was frozen in place since she left it there, and loses herself in thought. She gesticulates after long breaths, “Yes, there is indeed a lot to be done.”. Gullbein looks at the teardrop and it is moving again. “Do you wanna talk about this later? I am getting Curly back.”, Moddie just nods. And so, the two aesir now run, following a drop of water in the cinder shores of the Sorrow Sea, the deepest level of Niflheim, Hel Lokijarson’s abode, to rescue their deceased brother Baldur, the first hero of Asgard, the god of time.

The amber sky dims like a flame in the wind, shooting soaring lights all over, as if the light of day was reaching out to say goodbye. Tree leaves shuffle, birds tweedle, metal structures on wheels zoom by and honk, tall concrete habitational structures also tweedle, like birds on treetops, but filled with mansir. The light of the twilight feels trapped by the windows of the mansir structures, by the eyes of the metal structures on wheels, like sorcery, like magic. They have gotten far in these empty years. Those small creatures, with small minds and small lives, however with the most essential role to the web. The seeds of Yggdrasil, the fountains of ether, fountains of the good blood, gifted blood, given by the heir of the ether. Gifted by his power, a power too big to wield, a fire to hungry to feast, a rage to relentless to calm. The raging ocean of blood, passion, love, anger, hate, desire, decision. The first pillar, the king of red, the giver of blood, Lodur’s former heir. A still figure sits by the fading shadow of the trees at the top of the hill where birds chirp while there is still light. During the aerial creatures conversation a hand rises, the index finger stands out, straight and horizontal, the other fingers closed in the fist, and it stays like that. A fluttering sound now joins the chirping, a swift fluttering sound begins and ends, and now a loud chirping can be heard. A bird is standing on the finger, chanting melodies and moving its little head in all angles and directions. The finger doesn’t appear the size of a mansir’s finger, for the bird seems to be standing on a tree branch. The index finger of a dark-skinned male figure (9,8 ft\2,98 m) sitting on the grass with his legs crossed, whose red eyes scan that small creature, then he lowers his hand and the bird flies away. Scarlet eyes are fixated on that creature. The male jotun wears nothing on his upper body, only gray wool pants and a beige pair of cowhide boots covering his waist and lower limbs. The bird flies back to the tree from where it came from, however, at the last minute, it rises and flies up into the clouds. Wild creatures become noisy for the final time, stimulated by the creeping light of the ember star on the horizon, enjoying the peace of light and getting ready for the shadow of cold death, the abyss in the sky which stares and sends flying predators to collect unworthy preys. The little creature chirps in a fast and chaotic way, flapping its wings all over, seeming like if it was being carried by a wind current, instead of using the wind to navigate its body. It circles, spins, pirouettes, climbs above and over the highest clouds and then comets down, spastic, terrified. A smile forms in the shadow of twilight, the shadow that swallowed that insignificant smudge of feathers. One day in the past, upon gazing at a beast in the wild, in the dark, invisible if not for the eyes, the jotun felt weird by that image since young years, ever since pondering on the meaning of it. Red dots of omniscience, of daring, of challenge. A roaring silhouette around the intense gaze, trembling fangs like an engine of death, tight muscles like they were about to burst, and the eyes… Eventually, the image of that creature felt like gazing upon a mirror. It was there, but what was it, what was the thing that had those eyes? The red dots kept drawing him closer and closer to the darkness, to the night, to the silent hunt, until he was beside it, inside it, it. The wild, the night, the creatures, the cold, that is what felt like home since then. There is also the fact that Loki is a simple-minded creature, and by perceiving his skin color since his younger years, and how it was different from the skin of most aesir around him, he eventually assumed he was a creature of the night. And when his kin turned out to be the beast triplets, that was absolute confirmation of his place in the night, the jotun whose offspring instills fear upon the day-skins. One son who ruled the beasts who ran fearless, who craved blood like water, a taker of blood, the monster of the pit. Dropped to the pits since an infant, Fenris fought for days until he was eventually tamed, and the more time passed, the longer it took to tame him. The fighting pit… where his first child fought undefeated, where he showed the greatness of Hrungnir at such early eons. The red eyes… misunderstood by those who ran under light and warmth, by those who did not conquer, who let their wives live after childbirth. Jarsons, as he was called by cowards and only accepted for it also carried his mother’s name. Being a jarson never bothered him. It doesn’t matter what your name is. No one stays, all go, all close their eyes and become darkness, invisible forever. After the firstborn, two daughters of equal face and physique. One daughter who ruled the darkness within, the world poison, the madness of mansir, mansir’s curse. Despair, depression, anxiety, guilt, remorse, spite… all uncurable. She could not fight on the pits for she could not be bested, by claims that she didn’t fight with honor. The scary aspect of Jormungard is that, even though she swallows entire animals in one go, she always grew without feeding on flesh as if she fed on the minds of those she glared at. Jormungard murders for sport, she likes the fear that builds as she slowly picks her prays apart. Laufeyjarson could never be her father, her red eyes were inside his darkness, and the body inside the shadow were his failures, his sins, his harshness, his murder, his assault, his monstrosity. She was a bottomless pit of darkness. The rival of Odinson, for when he gazed at her he saw that which is bigger than the sky. And then, there is his last daughter, who has eyes who feel the smallest ever, because when you gaze at them you don’t feel the eyes of a creature gazing back, you feel the eyes of nothingness, the eyes of everything which is not you, waiting to swallow you whole. Hel ended up being the one Laufeyjarson related to the most because the burden of her powers feels very similar to his own. She is one of the few powerful enough to bring a feeling of companionship to the king of red, however, the only child of his whom grasps some form of sanity is Fenris. Hel interprets her powers as a priority, as a… responsibility. She doesn’t see the injustice of it all. It’s maddening. The image of his youngest child transforms into a little bird and starts spinning and raising to the top of the sky. The nervous chirping of a bird brings Laufeyjarson back to the present. Night arrives and the red eyes of the black giant male have a bright glow as he watches the helpless bird be carried around by the air, and with the other hand, he caresses his goatee. He is lost in thoughts, joyfully lost. Creatures of the day cannot grasp it, with their visible bodies, with their timid hearts, with stupid roaring and boasting. This bird doesn’t realize it is nothingness already. “So you finally did i’.”, the red eyes blink, the bird regains its control and flees. The top of the hill has several trees, big and old, tall grass, flowers of all colors, bugs and small animals jumping around and away. The jotun man sits on the floor with a tree to his left and some space to his right, and in front of him, the grass descends to a slope, with the mansir town by its end. Two red dots float in complete darkness, turning right where there is a female figure (1,62 cm/ 5,31 ft) who seems translucent, becoming solid overtime and floating by her left side there is a brown stone tower shield (1,40 m/ 4,59 ft) with golden roots coming out and all over it. Red dots point at those smaller green eyes, with a similar face to his face, similar hair type, but the hair on her has more volume, has a blonde color and dome shape, the voice tone has a higher pitch, her skin is white, wide nostrils with a thick nose bridge and when she smiles it shows that her teeth are golden with a gap between the superior central incisors. This one is a light creature who understands the night, the hunt, death, blood, or at least used to. She wears a pink slim light summer suit, well fitted to her physique, a zebra-striped shirt buttoned to a point where it revealed some of her cleavage, tucked in just on one side leaving the left upper front facing dangling, and a white leather shoe with a heel, sole and toebox made of shining metal. She is Skuld Mimirson, valkyrie commander, the recruiter of future souls. “Go’ your invi’a’ion.”, he breaks eye contact, but his body relaxes at her presence, “Odinson ran off somewhere, so it’s just us this time.”, the valkyrie approaches as her eyebrows contract, she turns her look to the direction he looks, “Midgard is no’ ‘he place faw ‘his, Laufs.”. Laufeyjarson eyes a metal structure zooming fast at the road down the hill, puts out the palm of his hand facing up, then flips it, the metal structure jumps, twists on itself, falls and explodes. His voice blooms out of the mansir screams and cries of panic, “I guess I just miss it.”. The windows on the buildings feel like tv screens showing colorful, lively images. The pale woman walks away from him, sits down by a tree, while everywhere around her keeps rowdy, Laufeyjarson’s words still digesting. “Do you miss i’, aw do you miss us?”, the red eyes follow several birds dancing in the blue sky, “Why the niff would I miss you? Or him? Have you seen the state of him?”, the green eyes hover above pale hands, palms open, clean, but these same pale hands have left permanent stains on her mind through all sort of decisions, “Our sta’e is our fa’e.”. Laufeyjarson laughs, street lights go on in the distance filling up the landscape covered by invisible stars, “Fate? You are one to talk about fate.”, the brighter light though is the light of the roaring fire on the road, firefighters arrive and start managing the fire, along with an ambulance, little people screaming down the hill, the valkyrie smiles, “Dis is never gonna die, is i’? ‘ah childish.”. The red eyes look at the green eyes, which respond looking back, maybe on reflex, maybe not, and blink once, “You know you can’t fool me, right? Before I am the giver of blood, I am the god of lies. You want your rightful place, but you are afraid to take it.”, his red eyes fixated on her green ones like they were grabbing them. Skuld scans Loki’s face with his last words in her mind, trying to grasp them as they are, but it feels like trying to grab an image from a dream. “I will never fawge’ ‘ha’ image. Every ‘ime I blink i’ feels like I’ve jus’ seen i’. Every ‘ime I wake up i’ was ‘he las’ ‘hin on my dream, aw my nigh’mare. They ‘ook ‘is loaf of bread faw ‘he power ‘e ‘ad. I canno’ inheri’ my demise, i’’s jus’ mental.”. Laufeyjarson sighs, raises one hand to the height of his eyes, between the image he gazes, downhill, the roaring fire, and the fire spread around to the vegetation, people and buildings. “Do yourself a favor and train the war witness for me. You will thank me.”. Skuld squeezes her hands into her pockets and watches the flames rise and take over the entire concrete structure, screams fading inside the windows, mansir jumping out the through the glass and splattering on the ground, and then, explosions. The concrete structure crumbles and hits nearby people and other buildings, setting those ablaze. “I don’’ ge’ wha’ you mean.”, she then looks at him and she recognizes his expression. The red eyes are unpolished, the face is bland, the big body of the jotun weighs down, the appetite for the screams, for the horror, is gone. “Bawed already?”, the red eyes find her after his head pans to the right as it was the heaviest thing, “Yup.”, Laufeyjarson stands up and exhales, the flames disappear and all the mansir just fall, lifeless. Silence floods the scenery, echoed screams draw green eyes to the rubble down the hill, she looks at several spots, then the screams fade out. “You still like riddles?”, Skuld smirks at him with devilish gold, “Tell me a good one an’ I’ll suck your cock.”, Laufeyjarson’s eyes widen and then he shakes his head in disapproval, “I don’t conquer anymore.”, Skuld keeps with her gold evil, her eyes get sharper, “Rude. No one said conquer, we are jus’ ‘alkin some sex.”, boredom fills the jotun male’s face, “You are just proposing because you know you remind me of my daughters.”, the valkyrie laughs, approaches and pats his big shoulder, “God ov lies alrigh’. So, ‘he riddle?”. The mansir town is in an uproar, frantic lights, metal flying structures with spinning blades which make them float in midair, grounded metal structures with wheels painted with irregular patterns of green arrive by pairs, lights start to be pointed at the sky. Loki stares down at the commotion, amused, and then he raises his hand in the direction of the valkyrie pointing his index finger at her, “How is the only way to train a mansir, being one such as yourself?”, and Skuld immediately retorts, “Ok, I ge’ i’. An’ is ‘ha’ a favaw ‘o myself… ‘ah again?”, Laufeyjarson gazes into her eyes, “You do get it. As expected of Mimir’s daughter. Don’t worry about it. Just trust me.”, the white woman shrugs in disbelief, “Begs ‘he freakin god ov lies ‘o ‘he stupid valkyrie.”, the giver of blood extends his left hand into the other direction and his fur coat floats to him, “You exaggerate.”. Understanding the gesture, the valkyrie reaches to her tower shield, which stood beside her the whole time, and touches it, becoming gradually translucent, “I know, you’re in’o ‘he long con. Tha’ stupid smile is when your bullshi’ finally lands.”, Loki stares at her as he puts his coat on, smiling only with his eyes, “Every time you win, but you don’t feel like you’ve won, Loki is smiling.”, the valkyrie vanishes completely but the final stare shared between them seems to linger in the air, her lips move before becoming invisible and her smile shines one last time, “An’ ‘ha’’s ‘ah ‘he sayin goes.”. The god of lies, now alone again, moves one finger and all the lights down the slope turn to him and his black body is full of holes where his organs appear, but there is no blood. The holes in his torso seem to slowly regenerate, bone tissue, then muscle tissue, then skin. The voices from the mansir down the hill get crowded and directed at the jotun god, but he merely watches them gather. After all of the present mansir are joined, pointing guns and waiting as one of them attempts to talk to Laufeyjarson the king of red moves his right index finger inwards, then his right hand stretches in the direction of the mansir group, and then his hand catches something. A new hole is made in his chest and he flinches a bit when it happens, takes a deep breath and opens his hand. The bottom of the hill fires up in a sequence of explosions, as Loki opens his hand and reveals he had been holding several grenade pins.

A huge water veil covers the horizon in every direction, falling water, like the inside of a waterfall, splitting with a piercing breeze that reveals the whiteness beyond. Water which falls and dissolves into white mist, merging with it, like water becoming rainclouds, and the noise it makes is muffled, a distant noise, distant greatness, like a memory. The waterfall encapsulates a colossal circular area that extends for miles and miles, consisting of huge chunks of rock and icebergs which float in sinking fog. Inside these water curtains the sound of it drizzling into nothingness fills the dead scenery, droplets latch by the hundreds to the surroundings, big chunks of rock which fall from the structure above, the upside-down mountain, as well as transparent chunks of ice float in every direction, swimming in the white fog, islands of big rocks and ice chunks. The whole structure is hard to measure, it seems as an upside-down mountain would be coming out of a cloud in the sky, and there was an overflowing ocean on the top of that inverted mountain, like a full drinking cup made of stone. There was enough space and water moving around to create strong gusts of howling winds at the top of the structure, which lost strength the lower it got and just breezed by the lowest point. The floating chunks of rock and ice slowly move along the wind, which moves the fog floor like a peaceful carrousel. Every now and then there are rainbows that form, stretching from below, seeming to form from the humid atmosphere and the perpetual light booming from the center, the mountain’s tip. The tip of the inverted mountain shines with a constant bright yellow, like a beacon, but not for those who traverse this place and actually for the beasts which lurk around the mountain, outside the giant water veil. This is the final level of the fog world, the way out, and the place where lies the nidavell fortress, the Nibelungen castle. The golden mountain top, full of golden roots that sprout in and out of the rock, seeming to vibrate, pulsate, suddenly emits a wave that not only flashes in a brief moment but also seems to ring like a high pitch metallic bell. After this ringing sound, a roar makes itself be heard from the outside of the giant rock, a roar which starts as a gurgle and turns into an effervescent shriek, vibrating and scattering the water on one side of the waterfall around, denouncing the direction of the roar. One rainbow arch flashes in a pure milky white and two figures appear, little ones, one is bald in the top of the head, with red hair mixed with white, medium length so it dances a bit with the wind, brown eyes, greasy skin with black tar smudges on the tips of the elbows, fingers, ears, and nose. This tiny one wears only a beaten-up leather overall, he lands on a big rock and takes a deep breath, enjoying the humidity. The second one has long black hair and a long black beard, both with timid hints of white hair, brown eyes that are always wide open, be it for the alertness of danger, be it for insanity. Might be one or the other, depends on the day. He wears a modest black wool set of long-sleeved shirt, pants, and shoes, then a hardly modest combo consisting of a purple silk cape which shines like royalty and metal and cristal jewelry on his fingers which always change according to his mood and usually denounce his current state of mind. They are the nidavell generals Dvalin and Durinn. The red-haired little one giggles, “I felt a chill. You fail, Zarka.”, as he turns his head to his left side and a silhouette fades into sight out of thin air, in less than a second. Another little person, but looking a lot younger than the pair of highly decorated warriors, appears like he was blurring from invisibility into visibility, like he vibrated in a way that made him disappear, then appear. When he blurred into visibility his stance was hostile, as he was preparing for an attack, but now the young worm was standing still. He carries a joyless expression, bitterness towards life, which a life of obligations tends to impose. Blue eyes with long stares, those really uncomfortable and unpolite ones, combined with spaced out blinking, eyes hungry for details in everything, eyes that felt like read the world. His appearance would give an observer the idea of looking at a corpse wasn’t the cold air coming out of his snub nose’s nostrils. The pale hairless body makes this tiny male figure look like a Greek statue, given his athletic physique. There is a permanent cold air that seems to ooze out of the white skin, giving him a ghostly presentation. It seems to the immediate eye that the tiny pale male is naked, but he wears a scale mail armor skirt made of Nidhogg’s osteoderm, white hard scaling that merges well with his skin and gets hidden within the cold air from the body. He is the nidavell elemental lord smithy of fire and metal, Schwarzerkörper. “Any trouble, Zarka?”, his brother-in-arms, bonded by the same elements, had tired eyes and a slow voice. After all that happened in Midgard and the trip back home, and what it all means, and the future that approaches, it is draining. Zarka stares back like a knife thrusting in unprotected skin, approaches Dvalin and places a hand on his shoulder, “Wouldn’t you have sensed trouble if there was any? Or is this power of yours just for gloat?”, his white teeth smirk with disdain. Durinn bursts in a stride towards the white worm and grabs the youngster by the neck, the white fog around the rock where they stand gets gray and dense, lightning courses through the whole place. “Gloat is a nidavell thing, boy! We do it since our tears were naught, ever since the first king carried the crown. Do not mock our ways!”, and with that said the pale little one gets tossed to a neighboring rock and reaches for his own neck, coughing. “There is no time, Zarka. We need to get in, report, and get ready.”, between deep breaths, the young worm stares with a long waited relief in this eyes, “Is this it?”, and that relief is shared, “Yes.”. Dvalin puts his hand out and the creepiest chill of cold scratches the air, a guttural bellow commands the temperature to the lowest point, the infinite molecules of the three nidavell beings shake less and less, until the light which enters their eyes is visible like an intangible thread and the air which leaves their bodies seems like a waterfall of clear white. The commanding bellow they all hear is visible in the air like a droplet in a water surface, showing, at last, the creature that growls. The head is long and the upper jaw is round, closing on the straighter low jaw with the upper jaw teeth showing, big teeth lined up in a pattern of bigger and smaller teeth. The eyes and the nostrils find themselves in opposite tissue, the first cave in around the bone bulges and the second lies in the bone structure, by the end of the huge nose bridge. Small eyes and huge nostrils, the huge cranium tilts up and pans around, searching for scents. The thorax is twice the size of the head and the tail is three times the size, totaling 65,68 ft (20 m) long and 16,40 ft (5 m) high. Strong limbs hold this creature and bend in a crooked way, like they would allow for strong and fast movement, climbing and running. This is Lofar, former lord elemental smithy of fire and metal, Dvalin’s old brother-in-arms. “Your father still has a lot to teach you. As have I, your brother-in-arms.”, “Only regarding commanding fire, I have mastered metal in a way none had before.”. The fog floor raises in the distance and a shape that resembles a big water creature swims in the fog towards the little ones. It circles around chunks of rocks and icebergs, sinuous, already within sight of the three nidavell, but not Lofar. Zarka’s father stands still, not even blinking, turning the nostrils to one side or another every now and then. Dvalin doesn’t bother to turn his eyes, Durinn glares like a laser beam at the hidden creature and lightning begin snaping and striking the moving shape, it doesn’t slow down, and Zarka gazes upon it and just waits. When the hidden monster is close enough it submerges and disappears for a moment, then it erupts in a burst, huge, long and thick, with a long conic jaw that resembles a duck’s beak, with small micro teeth that are barely visible, an olive green colored skin with a golden-ish hue as it fades from the olive green at the top, along the spine, into white on the belly, with two pelvic fins and two anal fins, and a tail like a hand fan: it is a giant northern pike. The pike backflips in the air and waves its body like a flame as it spins. The fish skin starts to dry and get thick, rough, maintaining the olive green with gold tint color, while the two pelvic fins shake and twitch, mutating and growing, transforming into short arms and the two anal fins behave likewise however the posterior limbs are much longer than the anterior, more muscular, allowing for running and jumping with ease. The cranium stays the same but the teeth grow bigger and serrated on the edges, and the eyes become covered by a transparent membrane that covers the eyes entirely when it blinks. Dvalin and Durinn stand and watch from the rock where they stand while Zarka, standing alone on another rock Durinn threw him at, turns to face the new monster as the creature lands in front of him. It is a giant reptile-like creature. Long legs, long tail, a thickly armored carapace covers the spine from the top of the cranium to the tip of the tail, and as the tail moves its tip feels like a blade. The posterior arms have four fingers, with very small thumb and pinky fingers but long middle pairs of fingers. The lizard grabs pieces of rocks nearby and brings them to his eyes and mouth, examining each piece with careful attention, discarding all pieces eventually. This is Andvari, richest worm to history, the brother-in-arms of king Hreidmar, the third king of nidavellir, and lord elemental smithy of all unliving things. Lofar blurs in front of Andvari, like it teleported, and raises his nostrils to Andvari, who touches the nose tip of his general in return. Lofar bellows and Andvari opens his mouth and his gills bloom, vibrating soundless. Dvalin turns his head to the right of that monstrous pair, his eyes fixated on something moving in the distance, further out, his eyes following it. Terror emerges from Durinn’s semblance, the sound in the distance and the chill sensation start to trigger the familiarity within the air, the known sensations and what they all mean begin to clear up in the fog of the warrior’s mind. There was only one creature with that sizzling roar, with that speed, those blood-colored eyes, to just appear in front of you without announcing itself, and then it spits death upon you. It is in front of the elemental lord wielder of lightning and rocks, it just is, their visual exchange brings both to a stop, both are ready to attack. Dvalin already has his hand raised and waits for that creature to make a deadly move. On the other rock, where the general duo stands, a different dragon has appeared. The sound of heavy bubbles popping, like magma popping when air raises out of it, is suddenly here, out of nowhere. Huge red bulging eyes scan the two nidavell generals, big round red eyes with a black kite shape as the iris, fixated on them as the head of the lizard changes movement, tilting in every combination of directions, fuming nostrils at the end of a constricted snout, and a big trembling gular fold starting by the middle of the lower jaw. Short fore-limbs (6,56 ft / 2 m) with five digits — each with a long sharp claw, forearms longer than the arms bend in a big angle with no tension to them, the giant hands rest on the rock. A trunk body (13.12 ft long / 4 m long) slightly thicker than the neck (5,24 ft long / 1,60 m long) with a pearly dark coloration, glistening darkness, and scaled with overlapping spiked triangular plaques, some scales having a matte white color, like they were covered with calcium. Long strong lind-limbs (3,84 ft / 3 m), flexed muscular thigh shows tension, frozen knee as if a jump was about to happen, and a long thin leg merging with stretched feet, being supported only by the toes, like a runner’s position. The tension at the moment feels broken by the pendulum-like movement of the huge and thin tail (19,68 ft / 6 m), balancing the enormous threat which seems on the brink of murder. And finally, eight pairs of modified scales, very long (26,24 ft / 8 m) coming out of the back, along the spine, and holding straight up, thin membranes with no sign of osteoderm to them, nor scaling. The monster’s mouth is constantly open and it fumes with odd colored smoke and molten gold dripping out of it. This is the screaming death, the fog predator, the garm of the underworld, the brother-in-arms of the first king, Ivaldi, hence the first dragon, and lord elemental smithy of all unliving things, Nidhogg. The red-eyed perfect worm glares at the pair of imperfect worms and waits, Dvalin steps forward, his skin becomes covered with liquid silver-like metal and steam begins to fill the atmosphere, big pieces of ice start melting very quickly. “You want me to earn my stay, my king? So be it.”, and he starts laughing as fire bursts out of thin air, circling around him. Now lightning bursts out of nowhere and Durinn laughs even harder with bits of rock floating everywhere, “You may be a fearsome one, maybe the most fearsome, but I don’t need to hold my hand in here. Prepare yourself, majesty!”. Nidhogg’s eyes get wide open, he raises his chest, making his twisting belly visible as a strong bubble sound escalates, and then he projects his head forward and spits a large quantity of molten gold in the duo’s direction. Both nidavell generals dodge, each to one side, as the liquid gold wave misses them. The black dragon burps and the sound that can be clearly heard alerts both generals to act, “Calc.”, the liquid gold splits into two parts, each morphs into two solid golden spears, then the spears zoom out after each one of the nidavell generals. Dvalin shrinks his flames into a microscopic point, and expands them in front of the golden projectile, exploding and deflecting it, and he watches the dragon and the golden spear while it spins away and plunges into the fog. The lord elemental wielder of lightning and rocks breaks several rocks into sand and zaps them with lighting, hitting the golden spear which aims for him with a molten glass blob, stopping it in place. Durinn notices his war companion flying in his direction and turns 180 degrees, Nidhogg teleported to his back, “I remember you do that, you blasted feces bug! What do you take me for, huh?”, Nidhogg shrieks a heated high pitch scream and claws the general, who parries the monster attack with lightning and punches him with molten glass, the dark lizard screams as the glass burns him. “Go away at once!”, screams and laughs the nidavell, whipping the first king’s alchemist with thunderous electricity, but the lightning suddenly starts to turn into green-ish colored flashes, then purple colored ones, then blue. “You just don’t quit do you? You already cried, Nidhogg, now quit your whinning!”, Durinn brings forth his glass storm, millions of particles of glass dust, and throws everything at the first dragon. Red paints the scenery as glass dust enters Nidhogg’s body through the nostrils and eyes and cuts the beast from the inside out and it collapses dead on the rock. Both nidavell generals keep laughing their fear away while keeping eyes on the other dragons which paid no attention to what happened. Zarka laughs at them, they look at him with seriousness, “After witnessing my deeds, you dare laugh, child?”, the glass storm swirls around its wielder, blinking with electricity. “Yes, I do. You killed the doorkeeper, you moron.”, Zarka states before he blurs into invisibility, then he appears with his dagger to Durinn’s throat, “You don’t kill who you are not allowed to, general. That is our life as soldiers, as sad as it may be.”. Then a new voice resonates, “Schwarzerkörper speaks the truth, Durinn. Without your orders, nor fate, it cannot be done. Disturbing the web is forbidden, but not to worry, I shall undo your mistake.”, the three turned to the voice and met two red eyes inside the skull of a huge skeleton (15 ft / 4,57 m) that stands in the fog. A velvet voice comes out of the skeleton even though the jaw stands frozen in place, and it feels like the eyes are the thing which speaks, turning the velvet words into a deadly threat. This is the fog world regent, the one with the role to guide those cursed by the prophecy, and to harbor those cursed by the gift of the king of red, the gift of life. Hel Lokijarson slides in the fog without moving to head to the corpse of the first dragon, her red eyes projecting downwards and as she approaches the black dragon becomes covered in cinder. When the jotun arrives by the first dragon’s body the cinder lifts and it wakes up, roaring a bubbly cough, grasping his breath. “The death of the dragon is not your feat, nidavell. Would you allow your insanity to guide you out of your place again, your role in the web will be erased. Do not forget.”, and those red eyes were not the eyes of anything tangible, but the eyes of the fathomless, the eyes of the abyss, and the nidavell listened. “Zarka, open the gate. I’m taking Lofar and you are marching as well. Name your successor, so I draw the blood.”, Dvalin kept his head down the whole time, looking at Lokijarson without meeting her eyes. “Kalfi.”, the blue eyes however could not avoid staring at the jotun goddess, her mere existence was enough to keep him entertained for hours. He then breaks eye contact with the terryfing skeleton and approaches Nidhogg, clapping his hands. Nidhogg roars a sizzling scream and regurgitates a big pool of liquid gold, then it burps, “Calc!”, and with this sound the liquid gold trembles and begins to shape and build itself into a door arch, after it forms the space inside the arch becomes blurred and cloudy. The two generals proceed to the door, Durinn enters it and Dvalin has his eyes pulled, his head turns, then his body, he feels the pain of this force, and then there they are, the red eyes of the skeleton. “General of fire and metal, after you cross this door, have your resolve clear, or you shall be removed from the web.”, the brown eyes of the little one return to him, he breathes as his mind reaches the surface of himself again, and now he knows what he must do, no matter who it will hurt, because he is tired of it all. Dvalin steps into the door and the skeleton of death stays behind, but her eyes followed him.

The early dark morning sprinkles life signs with echoes in the horizon, something can be heard far away, a brief moment of anything, and then quiet again. The hunting night crackles like firewood, it has been like that for some time now. The shivering cold grasp of darkness withdraws, the battle for survival concludes. Night creatures begin to disappear along with their fleeting sounds, the ready ones leave stage for the youngsters. The indigo sky lights up slowly and the sun rays smear the indigo into celeste, the cold mist clears up, wild youthful wake-up and cry. In a flash the light unveils the night like a tablecloth, sudden and quick. As the sun rays travel into the forest they meet a metallic surface and explode in bright reflection: gold. A rare sight for most. Some vision is that one, as hard as it is to understand, it does not get less outstanding. Floats in mid-air, gleaming, a metallic structure, a bit long, appearing to be a mansir’s spine but made of gold. What confirms that theory is the fact there is a mansir’s head on the top of it, looking pretty alive. A white man, skin, hairs, only the eyes are not white, and probably the teeth won’t be, because it’s bone. The valkyries stop immediately when they notice him, Durinn advances towards Mist and then Brynhildr utters “Gullbein is here.”, and points at the floating head. The nidavell elemental lord of lightning and rocks turns his eye, sees the floating head and the mass of electrified glass dust collapses. Dvalin had seen him already, Dvalin and the shield, they sensed him before the others. They all just stand and wait. There is an ancient rule all folk know of, the rule of traversing worlds, the rule of the Alfödr’s (All-Father, Odin) son, his last son. The aesir toll, the gatekeeper or, as it was phrased by the bald valkyrie in thulur: Gullbein (golden bone). “Gull” is a word that draws attention and announces a powerful being, for the power tends to circle around that metal, that color, that word. The most respected foes in the war are the ones that came to be witnessed around or with that color. Gullbein, the gatekeeper. Gullveig, the immortal witch. Gulldis, the aesir warrior. Gulldrengr, the golden valkyrie. Gulldyr, the god slayer. Gulldyr (golden beast) keeps at its pursue for mawing vanir flesh until it dies, lunging for Eir, who is burying Freyja on the earth so she can heal faster. Brynhildr was protecting them and stares at the floating head, biting her lip over and over. The floating head looks at the god slayer and the air right in front of the golem starts circling around itself and concentrating on a spot, compressing itself more and more until it blows into a strong breeze. A headless man appears out of thin air, with a brandished sword, and blocks the golden panther. The sword is broad, short, one hand grip, the piece is made of steel but the fuller seems to be of a dark metal alloy. The headless man wears a dark brown leather armor that goes on the chest, forearms and shins. Other than that he just wears a thick red wool piece on the upper body with no sleeves, leaving his white arms unprotected, and a thick red wool piece as pants, with dark leather shoes. On the neck a fur piece nests the hole where the head should be, and goes down the back making a fur cape. The man has the size of a regular mansir and even so he holds the god slayer in place, not flinching even a bit. With a swift movement the headless man places his hand on Gulldyr’s head and his hand shines, Tyrfing roars. The beast fights the steady grip of the headless man but it is done. All of the energy from lightning and fire was removed and the beast lowers, heavier and heavier, until it lays down with no light to its crystal eyes. The floating head descends upon the headless man and they fit into each other, like a sword to a sheath. Gullbein reaches to his back and fetches a horn, blowing into it, and the sound echoes throughout the morning clouds. Now, as the beginning of morning where the ready ones, masters of the night, leave so the youngsters can learn through the day, the old gods shall leave at their twilight and let their sons and daughters to their thrones. Gullbein stares at the warriors in front of him, “I am a gatekeeper no more. I now become just Vindler, the shield against the power of Lodur. Ragnarok begins. Do what you want, while you still can.”. That said, Gullbein looks away from all, the air starts moving around him with great speed and, leaving a strong breeze behind, he disappears.

The sun is still on the beginning of the leap over Midgard, the wind is stronger in this place, noisier, and whiter, so when Gullbein suddenly appears and lands in the snow he looks headless even with his head in place. A mountain (‎27.986065, 86.922623). There are some traces of mansir exploration but no sign of anyone. Gullbein keeps climbing by disappearing and appearing wherever he looks at. This side of the mountain seems impossible to climb. Further up on that side there is a small opening. He appears at the edge of the opening and looks inside, walks in. The only thing visible further inside the cave are two red dots, Gullbein appears right in front of them. Red eyes. “Fenris, it has been too long.”, “Indeed, Heimdall. Say, are my ears deceiving me or did you blow your horn?”, “Let me light the room before I answer, since we might talk for a bit.”. The glowing red eyes follow Gullbein in the pitch black darkness and only the blizzard can be heard, whistling with rage. The aesir walks to the side of where Fenrisulf lies and touches a rock, the cave begins to be filled by a golden light, the rock Gullbein touched has golden roots coming out of it. These roots entangled themselves around a giant black jotun man, very hairy, huge hands, well-shaped and toned body, completely naked. His hands and feet have long sharp nails. Long beard and hair like a beautiful tree. “Yes. I blew the horn. Ragnarok begins.”, “Fate knocks on our door. Death.”, “Our fate, yes, but not all are destined to that.”, “You were there when Mimir said fortunes? What is mine?”, “Ah, they trapped you before that whole thing?”, “Yes. Father often visits but won’t tell me my fate. He despises the prophecy, probably because Mimir said you would kill him. The tiny aesir.”, Fenrisulf laughs showing his long canines, Gullbein smiles but no gold is seen. “All aesir fall to jotunnar and all jotunnar fall to aesir. Ingunar and alf fall to nidavell and nidavell fall to their own tears. Svart seem to choose their doom.”, “But who kills me, Heimdall?”, “Vidar. Breaks your jaw open and you bleed to death.”, “Beautiful. Is he outside?”, now Gullbein shows gold, amused. “No. It will be some time to that. My own demise will also take a few weeks.”, “What a disappointing thing, Ragnarok. It should just end, like the strike of a sword from a good fighter. Isn’t it sad? A fighter that just can’t finish a fight? A hunter that makes its prey suffer? I hate half-assed work. I hate waiting.”. Gullbein touches the golden roots that hold the giant man sitting still on that cave and they move, shrinking back into the stone. Fenrisulf stands and he is huge, 14,7 ft, and Gullbein looks up to him as he moves around and stretches a bit. The cave became dark again. “This long wait must have been horrible then. I feel your anguish.”, the jotun kneels and looks at Gullbein, sighs in this room filled with companionship even after all light is gone and smiles an invisible smile. “I thank you, friend. You never mocked me, never feared me, never envied me, and fed me.”, “I wish there was something I could do now, before our fates close their jaws on us.”. Fenrisulf approaches his face, his bloody stare wide open, eyes shaking with excitement. There are no tears, but the crushing pain of the next words turns his voice into a whisper. “Help me remember how to be myself again!”. The dark cave falls into silence, the red eyes turn to the entrance and Gullbein appears right at the edge of it and turns back. “Let’s hunt.”. Gullbein smiles bright as his cape levitates to the wind around him, turns to the outside, looks down and disappears. Fenrisulf howls like he was blowing a horn of his own particular Ragnarok, a Ragnarok that would end before it was realised it had even started. That jotun jumps out of that cave like a cannonball, his red eyes fixated on a specific spot, down in Midgard. Fenrisulf doesn’t go to far, landing at the mountain still and sliding down the rock until he stops. The jotun walks and his eyes focus on a spot that seems close by, far down, so he jumps. Wind spins in place in the rocky plains, the jotun man walks towards the edge of the plains, a strong breeze is heard. “Where is it already?”, “A bit far ahead. Be patient with me, friend.”, “Just point at where she is.”. Fenrisulf points at a big conical rock, a swift breeze is felt and the aesir appears on the top of it. Gullbein looks down and there is a rock cabin on the other side of the big rock. Gullbein kicks the door of the rock cabin open and sees a chhetri mansir man and woman, who look back at him very startled. The mansir male starts speaking to Gullbein in a high and strong tone, but Gullbein stares at the mansir woman. The mansir woman wasn’t looking at him when he entered, and still isn’t looking at him, she looks at a spot on the wall, to the direction where Fenrisulf was. Her eyes all of a sudden run to the ceiling, making an arch until they stop at the other side, near the door. Fenrisulf shows his red eyes at the side of the door, the woman looks directly at them. The mansir man stands up enraged and goes at Gullbein, who looks back at him and grabs him by the arm, pulls him, grabs his neck and crushes it. Fresh and warm blood hits the mansir woman all over her body and face, still she keeps at the exchange with the jotun. “Will you do it already?”, “I… don’t remember.”. Gullbein sighs, then proceeds to clean his blood-soaked hand at the dead man clothes but he stops, turns around and goes to Fenrisulf. The jotun stares at the mansir woman all shrunken at the doorstep, his nostrils start turning to the side, his mouth opening, his tongue sticking out and he licks the blood at Gullbein’s hand. His red pupils dilate as it was his first heartbeat, he rips the roof of the cabin off with one movement, approaches the woman and coils his fingers around her clothes, taking them off. The jotun sits with his legs folded underneath himself, brings the mansir woman to himself and forces his member inside her. They never break eye contact, they both start opening their mouths in delirium and when they both climax Fenrisulf bites the mansir woman’s chest and crushes it. When the jotun pulls his head from the agonizing mansir woman’s body he has her heart on his mouth, severing the veins off with a bite and swallowing it whole. Gullbein walks around the remnants of the cabin, searching for some water to wash his hand and clothes, Fenrisulf falls to the ground and starts spasming, “How much was it that it took? Three minutes? Or was it faster? So long ago…”. After he is clean he goes to a chair and sits, watching Fenrisulf’s bones crack and fur grow all over his body. Growling and cracking, the aesir pulls his sword and examines it, swings it around a bit. Finally, a brown and grey wolf rises, he is even bigger than he was in man form, 16 ft. The white aesir sheathes his sword, Fenrisulf howls, the clouds seem to tremble to the sound of the wolf. “Are we done hunting?”, the wolf licks Gullbein in the face, “For now, but do come back. The next one proves to be worthy. The strongest alpha female I’ve ever seen.”, “I recognise the direction you are looking at, and I would guess it might be one of the females I was just in the company of. Now the question is which one looks back.”, “In that case, find out and let your own amusement be your reward.”. Gullbein smiles, hugs Fenrisulf’s head, sighs and they share a final look at each other. Their eyes keep at each other as their heads move in oposite directions, and then their eyes break contact. The giant wolf starts running while it stares at a specific spot in the horizon and a strong breeze spins around itself behind the wolf, Gullbein nowhere to be seen.

A fluttering sound, erratic, vibrating in the dusk sky, ruins the view of the setting sun. A cape, the lonely cape of a lonely man in the huge emptiness of the clouds’ humble abode. Gullbein stands still, wearing his usual emotionless countenance, while his fur cape struggles to hold together against the fast winds. His feet touch a metal structure, huge, that vaguely resembles the tip of an arrow, like most flying things in this world of mansir. The white aesir stands on the top of the big plane, close to the tail, and has been waiting while the sound of the fur cape on the verge of ripping is the only thing protesting against the silence. Eventually the white aesir’s eyes catch something down at Midgard, leaning closer to the edge of the plane to look at a small group of islands (32.299507, -64.790337). Gullbein points his open hand at that group of islands and moves it slowly to the side, like he was sensing something, then he stops, jumping at the direction where his hand last pointed at. With his eyes he pulls himself closer to his recent discovered destination, a fort at the margin of a small island. By pulling himself down he speeds up more and more until a sonic boom erupts, and with it the fur cape is gone. When he is close enough to the ocean he bends his fall and turns it into a flight. At a great speed, Gullbein puts the sole of one foot on the water and splashes big waves, with that his speed diminishes. When he is close enough to the fort he jumps, pulls towards it and lands on the top of it. The fort is simple, an arch of sturdy brick walls to take the fire and with little spaces for cannons to fire back. More to the back of it some rooms for keeping ammunition and provisions, and somewhere in between those rooms, a stairway that goes down. Gullbein searches with his eyes, standing on the high walls, and jumped down to the lower portion, walking to a part further back, where there was a hole. Probably where the staircase would be. Standing on the edge of it, he examines if there is footing to descend and then, in a flash, he senses something, but it is too late. A huge hand erupts out of the hole and grabs his body, pulling him inside with violence. Pain. A gigantic being bites the aesir torso with big canines, pulling and tearing Gullbein’s chest armor out. Rip through the flesh, revealing blood, and again the red eyes chomp furiously, now at his naked body. One canine goes through the belly, the other snaps off the creature’s mouth after meeting a ribcage made of gold, the giant broken tooth spins in midst of screams of pain. The tooth hits the ground and Gullbein is thrown at the wall of the cave and rolls around trying to catch his breath, reaching for his sword. The huge red eyes, bigger than Fenrisulf’s eyes, fly at Gullbein and he accepts the challenge, throwing his own flying head at the monster’s. The golden spine casts light in the place, and the golden roots seem to react to them, lighting up the cave even brighter. The aesir headbutts the huge head, breaking the nose this time, it screams and he uses this opportunity to look at the place. A vast cave with large ponds of water that reflect the golden light, numerous and pointy stalactites, and at the center of it a stone with golden roots coming out of its whole extension, and holding a huge jotun woman, 18 ft, naked, with no hair on her body and contorted around the rock. Her limbs stretch out of the roots’ grasp and reach around the place, mainly the arms and head. The body of Gullbein appears by the stone in the center and touches it, setting the colossal woman free, and the white head appears just above the body, both fitting into each other. The giant head flies towards him again, but he quickly touches a golden root and vanishes.

Gullbein appears in the middle of a thick fog and falls, falls, falls, falls and lands in water. The water is calm and blurred, red begins to spread around the unconscious aesir, who sinks slowly into the watery abyss. A gray dirt that is all over the body of water starts going around Gullbein and swirling, creating a current that carries him through. The floor of the body of water starts showing, the aesir spins around himself as he travels underwater and rises closer to the shore. Gullbein washes off in a small island of grayish sand, he keeps bleeding from the large whole on his belly, his body shakes. The grayish sand begins to move by itself and carry the agonizing aesir to the center of the island, where there is the same stone, with the same golden roots, but they entangle around a huge skeleton. The skeleton sits with grace on the rock and the roots are trapping it by the legs and arms only. Gullbein’s body reaches the stone and his forehead touches it, commanding the golden roots to withdraw. The skeleton, 15 ft, starts regenerating. When it’s all organs and has eyeballs its red eyes gaze upon the white aesir with curiosity, when it’s all muscle it jumps down to look at him, when it grows skin it’s black but covered in ashes, giving a gray and crumbling aspect to the skin. She has short hair with a gray tone, her face is similar to her brother’s face, a more serious one, unlike her crazy isolated and lonely sister. The ashes also cover her body and turn into a dark grey silk dress that feels very light to the eye. She is Hel Lokijarson, one of the triplets to inherit Hrungnir legacy, goddess of death, and life, for one is only because of the other. Most folk call her Askr (ash), for becoming ash is becoming one with Hel. Askr kneels down in front of Gullbein and covers his wounds with ash from the ground, puts her arms under him and lifts him, then she blows smoothly over the ash. Bit by bit the grains of cinder fly away from the body of the white aesir until the last one does, and no wound is seen anymore. Askr turns him around and covers the other side of the wound and does it again. After the last grain of cinder leaves Gullbein’s body he wakes up screaming and grabs his sword, Askr holds his arm. “Jormungard is not here. The serpent is very far from here. Relax, Odinson.”, “Askr, how are you free?”, “I used your body to set myself free. That is why you are here, right? Did you sound your horn? I wouldn’t hear it in here.”, “I did. You are the last of the triplets to set free.”, “Is that all, then?”, “No, I want my brother.”, “Ah. Didn’t your sister tell you? She failed. Why would you succeed?”, “Heremod wasn’t a hero good enough to fend Nidhogg off.”, “And is the dragon different than the serpent?”, Gullbein shows gold, “Probably not. But the jailbreaker is different than the slayer.”, “I see.”. Askr looks at Gullbein, her red eyes are piercing, even with her soft voice she is still frightening. “Go inside the sorrow sea and cry for your lost brother. Your sorrow will create a current and guide you to Baldur, the child of Ragnarok, the first hero of Asgard.”. Gullbein stands up, then kneels in front of her, “I shall be off, Lokijarson. Thank you.”, turns around and walks on the cinder beach towards the sea. “I have to tell you something, Ása-Heimdall.”, “You can tell me, forgive my eagerness but I won’t turn around for it.”, “This is the place where unbreakable runes dissipate, this is the meeting of all rivers, where the flow of ether stops forever. When you entered this place, the unbreakable rune that was placed on your mind dissipated. There is a chance that you will remember new things when your eyes meet a familiar face, or place, or situation.”. Gullbein turns around, speechless, his eyes were lost like Askr had bitten his mind heavier than any Serpent could. “You will see the runes on others now, and you need to choose wisely one of them, for you can only bring one here before Alfödr finds out.”, “So… I barely fulfill my task and you throw a fresh one at my face? Is that it?”, “If you don’t, the power of Lodur will win.”, “Don’t you, of all people, want the power of Lodur to win?”, “I am not the daughter of Lodur, but you are the son of Odin. I shall aid you whenever I see fit.”. Gullbein rubs his head, closes his eyes, turns around and starts running towards the water. He then utters to himself before he jumps in the water, “Let’s hunt, Heimdall.”

It just vanished. The golden hilt of that sword, the item to master the god slayer, the tail of Tyrfing. The lone female stands alone in an open empty space with a pedestal, an oval room where ceremonies took place. At the highest part of the room where the leaders would speak and give morale boost speeches, she stands, looking at the stone pedestal in front of her. Gone. She stole it from the nidavellir after defeating several jotunnar and nidavell generals, she and Hrist. She held it in her hand all the way back, put it on that very pedestal and did not take her eye from it since. She could still see it clearly. It feels weird because seconds ago, two blinks ago, it was right there. She got a sudden chill in her gut, that is a grim power. Her blue eyes had seen considerably, her withered white skin shook and still does as the hair along her body rises in adrenaline, that familiar feeling. Lodur’s power. The wielder of ether, the god of ether, ether itself. A god of ether exists as long as ether exists, that is how it works. The thought stammers, that old woman standing in awe was a goddess of battle, a valkyrie, but she still existed in times of peace. They all remain. Maybe a battle would be more than violence, maybe it is a trait of the living and when there are no people anywhere… maybe. “Some rest, something new finally, death would be a welcome change. But now, the job, the orders.”. Her short hair is a white mess, however, her mind was messier, by far. She is 5,9 ft and skinny, what made her social attire elegant and fitting. Straight and thick nose, small eyelashes, peaceful lips in a downward curve. That woman wears a light pink long-sleeved social shirt, light gray long wool tartan skirt, black pantyhose and black social shoes. Her name is Hildr, valkyrie general rank 2, the recruiter of present souls, the ones that are einherjar even before death takes them. She kneels down and takes a deep breath. The room is wide and made of stone, warm, a cracked stone floor with bits of roots that crawl along the crevices, golden roots, glistening. Yggdrasil. Since it reached the place from the floor a wild guess would suggest this is a world on top of other worlds. Asgard. Of course that some worlds cannot be reached by the roots of the tree of life, the lost worlds. Hildr put her hand on the golden roots and took another breath, even though years have gone by being alive didn’t feel easier and it didn’t feel harder. Not a reason to keep at it neither to quit it altogether. A big battle was coming, Lodur’s power only manifests when there is a big one. But was it the last one? Hildr needed some peace, some real peace. The war took a toll on her. She wanted to cry every day when she opened her eyes, with two voices in her mind: one said ‘why?’ and the other, ‘thank you’. Two edges of the same sword called hope. A wishful thinking that everything will be better, and a wishful thinking that her life ends soon when everything keeps horrible as always. The thing that bothers her is her power because she understands it now, and it was not the power of Lodur that made her shiver but power itself. She is too powerful. Her einherjar cannot be defeated because she gains strength from living warriors, from other valkyries, from herself. She was the first valkyrie to be granted the rank of general and for that reason, other valkyries call her exactly that. Even if she makes a mistake on purpose she cannot die, even if Odin ordered her to die she could not make that happen, no one can. Only Ragnarok. Only the end of the gods can give her hope. There are not days anymore, not for a long time, not for long before her hair was white. There are only orders now. The fight is not even tasteful, the blood, the pain, metal opening her insides, yelling, fire, the taste of sweat, the taste of blood, that doesn’t do anymore. Only power. The power to end power. The god slayer. The general was standing in that room staring at the golden hilt ever since they broke into Jotunheim to steal it, along with kidnapping the three nidavell and throwing those at mannheim. It has been a couple of days, it has been a couple of ‘not orders’. She told her companions she was going to keep watch on the hilt, and that was a lie. What she really wanted was to take the hilt and use it to kill herself, something impossible with the hilt unless a mansir held it and did it. So she was decided to volunteer to find the war witness and have that one ease her suffering, that was an order she was giving herself. “Just die already. Just do it. You have done enough for your cause, you have done enough to your heart.”. And then the hilt disappeared and she became conflicted. Is that a sign? Is that supposed to give her hope? Is this finally Ragnarok? Is that the announcement of her own peace for her own battle, never-ending battle? At the door someone calls, “General, the queen summons.”.

Hildr walks into a great hall with dark stone walls, a purple carpet goes along the wide open doors and under a large wooden table at its center. Nothing on the table, it was not a time for celebrations, only a hooded figure sitting at the far end on the other side. The general felt rosier, she smiled. Walking beside her was a giantess and a goddess, 13,3 ft tall and for anyone’s surprise not intimidating at all, more like gracious. Her muscular arms stick out of a brown leather tight suit that covered her completely, only revealing her arms and the lower part of her legs, below the knee, and that part of her leg wears a pair of brown leather gladiator sandals. With her right hand she holds a huge metal bow by the string and supports it on her right shoulder, the bow dangles as she walks and squeaks as its internal springs and suspensions get pulled by the movement. On her back, there is a quiver of metal arrows that fit as such if you are a giant as that goddess, but if you are a regular mansir those would be spears, long spears. On her left hand, she holds a very long and beautiful white piece consisting of several animal furs stitched together, like a big blanket. Brown eyes, pale skin with visible green veins all along her buff arms, light brown hair braided in a crown rope twist braid, small delicate upturned nose and joyful lips, always half smiling. She is Skadi, jotun goddess of hunt and winter, given as war spoil after the jotunnar and nidavellir were defeated in the aesir-vanir war. As a courtesy, she was given the right to choose her future husband and upon marriage, she would be welcomed as aesir. Her marriage was seen as a big progress and a step towards better traditions since it was better than the usual thing… the raping to achieve pregnancy and killing of the mother after the child was born. Still tradition but a lot better, at least in the eyes of the aesir. The jotunnar saw Skadi as a whore, a shame, and was better dead than being this disgraceful evidence of jotunnar weakness. Skadi, however, never bore children because it turned out the man she chose, Njord, god of oceans, chosen for his delicate ankles, was not a man like she hoped. She had to choose upon seeing very little from her bachelor applicants. Njord likes other men, but even so, he didn’t oppose having children with his new wife. That didn’t do. Even though Skadi preferred a man with delicate ankles she still wanted to be taken and prepared for pregnancy as farmers prepare the land for new crops, she wanted a male. A sensible one, but a male. Njord was not that man and even if he could become that man for her wife it was all already ruined, the desire had vanished from the sight of him, from his smell, his voice. It, the whole thing, him, everything became nauseous. Then the gorgeous giantess kept her role despite not having that part of her marriage, of her life, sorted. Eventually, it started sticking out. The lack of a good fornication made her a pretty deadly enemy on the field, and a bit of a joke among those who knew about that particular piece of her life, to a point where Skadi got a wee bit paranoid about it. “What is so funny, general?”, the giantess gave the valkyrie a dastard look, demanding an answer and fearing it at the same time. The general looked back in amusement, disarming the goddess who expected a bullying glare but met friendly eyes. “I am far older than you but your size makes me look like I am the child. That feels so ridiculous. I love it.”, Hildr has a sincere smile while saying that, Skadi blushes and blurts out a giggle. It is the darnest thing, how we at our loneliest point can become wide open as if our soul were fighting back the darkness. Hope was out there, the general had only to reach for it. And she is. As they arrive close to a woman in a green hood piece that is sitting at the edge of the long wooden table Skadi suddenly gets upset. “Wait, so you think I’m a child?”. The general laughs and sits down, but doesn’t respond.

The sun was bright in the dark sky, full of stars and galaxies, and the garden in the middle of the stone keep of Asgard was lively. The stone keep spun around itself and then shadows would cover the garden, giving view to Midgard above which was not an ugly thing to see. When the sun hid below the keep the garden would also become lively but for different reasons, there was a combat practice going on. That unusual situation of light changing at random moments was really stimulating for the warriors in question, the adaptation and training of fighting without sight spiced things up. It was a blonde woman with a huge braided long hair that even braided measured to her thighs and an old man with frizzy hair that held with his left hand a bottle of Port wine, sipping it when time allowed. Both were wearing simple wool clothes. Barehanded, fast, smiling, running and hiding when darkness struck to sneak on each other. The general enters the garden while everything stands blackened, she feels their souls, she harnesses their power for herself. The moment the worthy soul resonates with the general’s soul she becomes a match for it, she becomes as fast, as strong, as smart, as cunning, as treacherous. Those two wanted her, now. Their violent intentions towards her gave them away, their adrenaline sped up hearts became a signal in a sonar, she saw exactly where they were and waited. So she enters the garden as Midgard bears witness and punches the man right in the gut so hard he flies to the wall and smashes his body, collapsing. He was the easy one. Hildr dodges the kick that zooms next to her ear and grabs the woman’s leg, it feels cold, the woman jumps at her, the garden is filled with light, that blonde woman is wearing a full piece of armor made of… blonde hair. Covering her whole body leaving only her brown eyes on display, it looks like shiny dusty golden metal, like a metal and crystal alloy of sorts, gold, and diamond most likely. The general still holds her leg and waits for a strike but the violent intent is gone, the blonde armored woman approaches with her bent leg on the valkyrie general’s grasp, taking a deep breath. She has one opportunity to strike, that is the thing with valkyries, they cannot read your movements if they are peaceful ones. The strategy is always getting around them in a way you are close enough to act without making yourself a target or striking viciously enough you defeat them immediately. Well, it’s not a big of a strategy because it has never worked. You go for the einherjar and that is it. One valkyrie is known to have perished, the original rank 1 general, but that is a story people avoid telling. The armor fades away and the blonde woman is again just wearing her clothes and with a huge braided metal hair weighting on her back. Her body is bursting with muscles and curves, she looks strong and erotic, an interesting combination. She moves like that mass of iron hair was nothing, and moves even faster with the armor on. Her muscular arms move towards the general’s head, the blonde woman smiles, her hands land on the valkyrie’s jaw, thumbs in the air, then she goes for a kiss. As the kissing woman is nearer and nearer the general grabs that woman by the back of the hip and squeezes her butt cheeks. Everything ends and the blonde woman moves away feeling embarrassed and enraged. “I realized you wanted to trick me to focus on the kiss so I would forget about your hands around my neck and when you started chocking me I wouldn’t be able to stop you, but you blushed. That was your mistake.”. The blonde woman is silent, just standing there and glaring at that goddess of battle. The old man coughs blood and moans in great pain, and then drinks some Port wine. “No restraint huh? No wonder nobody ever wants to do combat practice with you valkyries. Do you crazy bitches ever turn the frick off? Jesus it feels like you punched the drunk out of me, and the hangover!”. The general couldn’t care less about what that man was saying, she was just carrying out her orders as usual. “You attacked me, moron. The queen orders you two, go to Mannheim and start the training, the war witness has been already chosen. Feels soon, I know, but this is Ragnarok. Finally.”. The old man stands up and moves around as gentle as he can, cracking some bones and touching his ribs with his fingers, then he takes a deep breath and walks out of the garden. The blonde woman stands and stares at the general, her eyes burning with intensity. She lost the fight and she hated losing more than anything else. She rarely spoke, that one, everything was down to the fists and the kicks, the body language. She was a fighter, a gymnast, a dancer, a seductress and a tease. Right now her body was speechless, that silly combat loss was chewing up on her in more ways than one. Her body demanded a rematch but she had her orders. The sun gave a few loops around the garden before that blonde fighter headed to the door, her pride bleeding so much she yelled as hard as she could right after stepping out.

A diamond the size of a watermelon, crushed, pulverized, sucked into a whirlpool along with another kind of dust, metal dust, most likely gold. Then another diamond shaped like an icosahedron, smaller, the size of a human head, floats between two small figures who approach their hands and lightning and fire compress the icosahedron more and more, getting smaller. It turns black and spherical, a dim light can be seen at the center of it. The two figures start to distance from the black sphere and attach rocks and metal to it, melding those together. Spherical cogs and bits, structural patterns, twisting, pumping, spewing steam and lightning and fire. A hydraulic skeleton takes form, gets surrounded by solid pieces of metal-crystal alloy, hollow and punctured, spewing fire and lightning and steam. More solid bits of alloy in time give shape to what seems to be a feline statue, the burnt metal melded with diamond alloy give a ‘blackened with blue hints’ color to the scary figure. It is the same size as a normal panther would be, an adult one. Finally the gold and diamond dust whirlpool is sucked between the two small figures who both take a deep breath, approach their pair of tiny hands and start crafting from the shiny yellow dust. With expertise, a nanochain mail is crafted and wrapped around the feline statue, a metal-crystal alloy skin. Three sets of dark spheres, two are eyes and one, the bigger one, is the heart surrounded by cogs and pipes. From within the golden shiny skin crawls fire, lightning, and steam, as it stands still and tweaks peacefully. Durinn moves his wide open eyelids around the path they came from, the night sits silently offering distant cricketing, timid cold wind about his hair. “They know.”, he guesses, less worried now they managed to recreate the beast once more. Only one is allowed to exist, it is the arrangement. The lost general gets strayed in thought, for those who live around the nidavell elemental lord wielder of lightning and rocks it proves difficult to deal with his current state. A permanent state of denial. The echoes of war summon him to a distant past which he and his people desire to change, but it cannot be, only avenged. “Reparatur” is a word the lost little one often mumbles when spotted wandering in the empty halls of Jotunheim. A friendly voice and hand reach him. “There there, swift punch, we need you, calm yourself.”, Durinn turns to his friend, Dvalin, who has a nostalgic smile from times of peace and seeing that smile makes him frown. “Smiles bring tears.”. Dvalin sighs and nods looking at his friend, brother-in-arms, who invited him at his side after the elemental lord smithy of metal and fire, Lofar, was defeated in the war and holds in the dreaded words of sorrow that bring tears as his nostalgic smile fades. Words of gratitude. Durinn’s eyes get less intense and less opaque, he holds the hand of his brother-in-arms that rest on his shoulder and nods. Then Dvalin turns to one side and the valkyries and a goddess land in front of him.

Four figures land in front of the pair, meanwhile the twitching golem now walks around slowly behind the two nidavell. Tyrfing sinks in the grass and leaves deep trails along the land, at each step fire and lightning and steam spatter out. Could such a thing be alive? Sentient? The way it moves is like it is gathering information about its surroundings. On the other side of the two nidavell, the land wasn’t full of trails and destruction of nature but untouched, even after a landing from a reasonable height. Those four women seemed to have jumped from a tree or something, no truck in sight, abandoned for strategic reasons since it’s made of metal. Their landing made no sound, however, Dvalin knew exactly when and where they would land, which also was the reason there were four of them, because of him, because of the color of his hair. Red-haired ones are the ones touched by the red giants, Muspell, and carry their blessing. Natural proficiency with seid, the flow of ether. Basically, seid is the path ether will take so it is possible to see movements, patterns or the direction of projectiles beforehand. Brynhildr was along the group of valkyries also because of Dvalin, for her hair was also red. Along the valkyrie of shield landed the valkyrie of parry, Mist, the valkyrie of allies, Eir, and the goddess of fertility, Freyja. None moves, aside from the golden monstrosity behind the two little people, it seems they expected the nidavell to create Tyrfing as soon as they got freed so the sight of the golem erupts no surprise. Eyes go through silence from one ally to one enemy to the monster and back. “State your business, battle maiden.”, Dvalin finally speaks, looking at Brynhildr, his foe of choice. Brynhildr was at the middle of them, at her side and behind her shoulder was a blonde woman with short hair and blue eyes, an innocent face, seems like a very young woman, wearing a social attire of short-sleeved white shirt, social green long pants, and black shoes. Eir, the valkyrie of ally, summoner of the souls that aid victory. To each side were the remaining two, Mist and Freyja, all of them were still and silent, waiting for the shield to lead. The bald valkyrie kneels and reaches a piece of grass, rips it from the earth and puts in her mouth, looks at the pair and smiles. It is pretty common in times of conflict that one part teases another, for strategic reasons mainly, but it can get to a sadistic point when people know each other for some time, which would be the case between these old war enemies that meet at this silent night. The taunt works perfectly, Durinn gets furious, he thought she was going to show respect but she faked it and just did that to mock them. The shield giggles at Durinn and looks at Dvalin. “You both are going back to the truck.”, she says, but the elemental lord wielder of fire and metal, unlike Durinn, is unphased by that childish act. “I disagree.”, Dvalin says and his skin becomes metal as liquid metal starts leaving his pores and covers his entire body, then he runs his right-hand fingers through the extension of his left arm creating sparks that immediately become flames. The flames don’t extinguish and keep burning, floating in the air around the nidavell. Grass and roots crawl around the metal nidavell’s ankles and hold him in position, a blonde green-eyed woman storms in his direction. She is striking to the eye, naked and only occasionally covered up to the knees, when she is not moving, by her voluminous hair adorned with flowers and crowned with a headband of wheat grain heads. Dvalin snaps his fingers and the flames concentrate on a single point in front of the goddess and expand suddenly, exploding, Freyja dodges the blast and jumps back. Dvalin does not want that woman near him. She is a distraction, everyone knows that she is cannon fodder, not an actual warrior. Even so, she can take a beating because as a vanir she is the very life, she is basically the embodiment of hope in the famous saying. Dvalin is afraid to be sucked into Freyja’s seduction, it is a trap. Durinn, on the other hand, still enjoys hurting her solely to hear her moan, to watch her bleed, for the excuse to touch her. Durinn is still ignorant of his own pathetic blood rushes, to the genius game Freyja plays, or he isn’t and doesn’t care. Freyja lands close to her companions as Durinn rubs his hands on his general attire, creating friction, quick flashes and crackling, his eyes go wide and electricity goes out of them. He jumps with great speed in the direction of the gorgeous goddess and throws a kick at her side, her waist moves away from his strike seconds before it touches her. Again, he is gone, now to a different place, but alas, gone. The more she dodges his strikes, the more he wants to hit her, touch her, the more he is close to her and smells her perfume and is close to her body. When it’s time to snap the old friend out of it he will do it, for now Dvalin conjures a huge amount of fire and shoots all of it into Tyrfing. The panther’s eyes and heart start absorbing the flames. “Ally, Parry, get ready.”, Brynhildr grabs Eir’s hand and the golem jumps at them, wide eyes and mouth, claws the size of daggers, then right when it’s about to hit one of them a translucid mansir appears and blocks the strike, disappearing immediately after.

The nidavell lord elemental wielder of fire and metal studies the scenario. Tyrfing can kill the valkyries with one bite, which is the reason Freyja is here because she can survive several bites. However, killing valkyries in battle is near impossible because of their power, inherited by Herja, the queen of blue. Will. Unbreakable energy in battle, undefeated hope, and invincible strategy. Seid cannot read where the einherjar appear or how they move and you kill a valkyrie by killing all of their einherjar. So the best plan of action would be to take Freyja out of the picture so Tyrfing aims at the valkyries. Dvalin points his left-hand finger to Freyja and, with an explosion, the liquid metal that was around his finger flies like a bullet in a blade shape towards the goddess. “Pain is the trigger.”, he remembers. Swift punch is needed now. The glass storm. The greatest general there ever was in that cursed war. Freyja dodges the bullet blade and it flies right at the next body, the little person just throwing punches at that beautiful vanir, slashing clean through the skin of his shoulder and ripping it out. Durinn thunders in pain, Freyja stands back. The floor trembles and caves in around the battlefield and the valkryies and goddess jump to a safer place. Rocks emerge from the soil and crack, crack and crack. Sand flies around the lost general, whirlpools of condensed sand that rubs against itself causing saltation and heating. The friction between the grains of sand scales up to the point electricity forms and then lightning fries the grains of sand that become glass.

One that is not used to facing a valkyrie in battle might find weird that those warriors did not attack the nidavell, but that is how they operate. A valkyrie will not attack unless she was previously ordered to or someone attacks them first. They sense and react to the intent to do harm. Not even the commander of valkyries acts without orders. They are the daughters of the one that ends wars. By having encountered valkyries on several other occasions, the nidavell lord wielder of fire and metal now is very cautious not to trigger a valkyrie. It might be your last mistake on the battlefield. As Dvalin watches the glass storm take shape again right in front of his eyes it is hard not to feel the pain of losing the war, losing companions, being this powerful! Then, it happens. Mist takes a step in the direction of the lost nidavell ordering those little pieces of glass that can shred their bodies until there is no piece left. Whenever Durinn would move to manipulate the storm of glass dust in their general direction a translucid einherjar would appear and push him in an opposite direction to take off his balance and the glass storm would get uneven and sloppy. Durinn could not manipulate his elements with precision enough to hit his enemies and yelled with deep frustration. That made an opening to a strike from the goddess, so that naked body covered by lustrous blonde hair moved through the spiraling and thundering glass dust avoiding any unnecessary shards, or lightning, that would come her way. “Now.”, Dvalin starts taking controlled breaths and points his hand at the vanir, she slows her pace and starts to sweat, stops and rubs her face. With his other hand, he pulls the golden panther towards her at great speed, the golem when has her in its sight prepares the lunge. Freyja suddenly feels the highest fever of her life dissappear and then Tyrfing snaps her shoulder open with a bite, bursts her right lung and she starts bleeding like a waterfall. Before she passes out she sees the image of the lost nidavell who, finally able to touch her, grabs her hand with a quaking grasp, and kisses it.

“Álvaro! Customer!”, Mr. Oliveira frowns at the skinny youngster from the office door then closes it again. The 20-year-old was behind the counter, doing whatever on the computer so time would pass with a broader pace, inclining his head he looks at exactly what awaits for him. Two small men, or little people, or whatever. The skinny man stands up and grabs the credit card machine inside the drawer. Walks toward the front door but before going out he makes sure the cash register is locked and gives a long look at the items most people go for so he would have a good memory of how many there were if one of them got stolen. Night shifts. Álvaro’s expression through the whole night, from seven to seven with a weekend break each fifteen day cicle, had been solid, carved into his face. He knew the routine, the types of the night and that having a resting bitch face and a dumb look on this eyes was the best strategy. He wears the gas station shirt, blue with the logo on the lapel, he loved that logo, the shirt was the part of the uniform he most carefully ironed and washed. Blue jeans like a second skin, like they were ready to rip apart and reveal a brand new bright colored pair underneath, disgusting almost, but still civil enough. Cheap sneakers, white socks, no watch, clean shaved face, short hair, brown eyes. He is a man, no need to ethnical gibberish, at least not to this man in particular. The one thing that is indeed ethnical about this young discouraged man is his name. The name Álvaro is nordic, it means ‘noble warrior’ or ‘warrior protector’, and that was no coincidence. Mannheim is the only world among the seven worlds that holds no quarrel nor opposes other worlds. Asgard, the world of creation, opposes Svartaalfheim, the world of madness and destruction. Alfheim, the world of light and warmth, opposes Jotunheim, the world of darkness and cold. And Vanaheim, world of life, opposes Niflheim, the world of decay. At the center of all worlds, connecting them all, lies Midgard, and at the center of the conflict between worlds lie mansir. Acknowledging this, Odin trained mansir to be heroes and fight wars that would take place in several times and places. Upon death those heroes became the first enherjar and gave strength to the first valkyries, mostly. The reason why Mannheim and mansir are at the center of conflict is because Mannheim is where lies Yggdrasil, the tree of life that holds the connection of the worlds and the source of ether, the energy of everything that is. Some of the seven world folk learned how to use the ether or merely that it was basically what allowed magic to even exist, and it was a resource like oxygen, so it would be needed that sources of ether were at the war constantly. This is what mansir are, portable sources of ether. That is also what allows that Tyrfing can only be mastered by a mansir, for Tyrfing is a godslayer because it eats away ether from its prey. In that sense Tyrfing cannot kill the sons and daughters of Midgard for these ones emit ether, they are the seeds of Yggdrasil. Once the last children of Midgard is standing, and none other, the tree of life shall perish and the last mansir will hold the full strength of the ether. Then the giver of blood shall challenge him…

Álvaro was given to an orphanage as a baby after he was found in a trash can, raised at the orphanage and decided to leave when he was sixteen. Attended school until eighteen to graduate mid and high in an intensive course and is now doing online studies at a college. He wishes to be a professor, and strangely so, given that he is so shy and silent all the time. He raised a house at an illegal land amongst some other people, forming a bit of a community, and lives alone in what used to be an improvised wood shack, and now is an improved wood shack. He never felt the owner of his own life, never came to his mind the meaning of his birth, and the thing that kept him going despite it all was the paper note that was attached to his neck by a fishing line, where his name was written. Why? This only served to make Álvaro hate his own name. As he grew up however, people would compliment his name and ask what it meant, but he would lie because he couldn’t care less. Having people around him eased his pain and anger, so he kept people around and envied their normal life complaints. His work at the gas station meant to give him a sense of community, along with his neighbours, and so it would feed his colossal desire of belonging. One particular thing Álvaro liked was trying to catch interesting details about the people he meets, specially in the workplace, so he can spice up the dull weekly work routine. As he walked outside he immediately knew he would remember that night forever, and he would, for different reasons. “Dwarf gay sex, is that a thing?”, the young mansir wondered, amusing himself with perverted thoughts as he approached two little people that were tightly squeezed in a big roaring motorcycle. He approached and just nodded to the pair, which responded, opened the fuel lid, put the gas hose in and started pumping. “Do you accept gold and diamonds?”, the little one in the front asked, athletic dadbod, bright combed red hair that drew more attention than the fact he was bald, shaved face and a mouth that seemed to never have smiled in its existence, brown dead eyes, hands and feet at display covered in grease and coal dust, wearing dark brown leather overalls which covered only his upper legs and front, revealing his back where the hair from the top of his head seemed to have run off to. This is the lord wielder of fire and metal, nidavell general, survivor of the aesir-vanir war, Dvalin. Álvaro is caught off guard by those words, “I would need to ask my boss.”. Dvalin just stands and stares, after some time the mansir gets the hint and walks back in. The fire and metal wielder looks back to the road in the direction that they came from, then at the floor around them, around the gas station, and points at a specific spot. Sitting behind the red haired little person was another little one but with a full grown set of long black hair and long black beard with a distinct mustache, brown jumping eyes, open eyelids from the alert state he was conditioned to harvest in times of war, skinny body covered in a thick wool cloth which seemed to be an uniform for nidavellir generals, worn out and the several details on that magnificent piece seemed blurry on the cloth lining, no shoes but clean feet, hands filled with jewerly and nails on hands and feet pretty well done. This one once was the nidavell elemental lord wielder of rocks and lightning, the great war general Durinn, considered lost today after defeat took a toll on his mind and in a need to deny the fact his people lost the war his mind kept him in war forever. Durinn aims his open hand at the spot which Dvalin pointed at and the ground shakes in that area for a brief moment.

The young seed of Yggdrasil comes back out with a pissed off expression, inside Mr. Oliveira laughs like a madman. “Are you an idiot? This is the twenieth century not the middle ages. They probably already left and stole a bunch of things while you were here asking me this nonsense. Get ready to be fired, son. I’ll check on you right after I stop laughing. Hahahahahaha!”. Words from that terrible conversation echo in Álvaro’s mind and his fears seem to come true at each passing moment. They were gone, but left a diamond and a piece of gold, at least. He grabs those two and puts in his pocket because they are either the real deal or not, and Mr. Oliveira wanted to laugh so maybe he just keeps laughing inside that office forever. Back inside nothing seems to be different, doesn’t look like they even went in, they most likely just took off. An interesting story for a date or a party, if he ever gets an opportunity like that. Where should he work next? That starts to cross his mind as the situation sinks in, he goes on the back and cleans his locker, changes his shirt and puts the spare shirt of the uniform in his backpack because he loves that damn logo. He had good times here, all in all. A motor roar can be heard outside, new customers, maybe ask for a lift? Álvaro walks out of the restricted area and out of the gas station and sees a big truck with the engine on, roaring and smoking. The driver door opens and the next second a woman lands right in front of that young skinny unemployed man, her knees only bend a little bit upon landing and with bent knees that woman is taller than Álvaro already. She is white, green eyes, red haired eyebrows, shaved head, restless jaw and lips that moved and bit and licked and chewed in anxiety, clinched hands that awaited for orders like it was a drug, athletic and hot, wearing a full male social attire in brown color without a tie. She landed like a feather, unmenacing, stood and now looks at Álvaro and only when she makes eye contact that man feels his stomach freeze and weight like an ice rock. That is Brynhildr, valkyrie of shield, recruiter of souls that die protecting. That 5,5 ft tall man looks up to the 6,2 woman in front of him and can only think that the fact she is so tall is arousing him and he doesn’t understand why. “What will be today, miss?”. They never broken eye contact, then after he says that she just relaxes and looks around the place, inside, and goes to the gas pump and appears to want to fill the truck but she seems unfamiliar with the vehicle. Inside the truck were a few more women, three more, and one of those comes down from the driver’s side and walks towards the seed of Yggdrasil, but this one is also 5,5 so he feels normal again. That feeling of being 13 when some bully threatened him faded and at the same time that feeling of being 13 when he fell in love for the first time came rushing back. This new girl was pale white, blue eyes, black wavy hair that touched her shoulders, skinny hot, wearing full male social attire in black color with no tie and no jacket. This is Mist, valkyrie of parry, recruiter of the souls of the lost that died away from home or from themselves. Mist wanted to ask him something, Álvaro wanted to ask her something, but none spoke, they stare, smile, look away, stare again, smile, look away. Brynhildr looks at the mansir from the other side of the back of the truck, it was unatached, and he knows what she wants poiting at where the fuel lid is, then she finally starts pumping gas. Mist smiles at him, he smiles back at her and fills his pockets with his hands, giving up. “I am never going to be brave enough to speak to a woman this beautiful. It is just useless to try.”, thinking as he sees Brynhildr put the hose back at the gas pump and not bothering about money, and that is fine because he wasn’t a worker anymore. That moment was going to end, cease to exist, he wanted to remember it, he wanted to not let it end… but how? Bryhildr looks at Mist and Álvaro without thinking put his hand out in Mist’s direction, “Let’s go.”, Mist looked at the shield valkyrie then back at the mansir, held his hand but then twisted the grasp and changed the configuration of that handshake to a hand-kiss with her hand facing up so Álvaro would kiss her hand. He does. They smiled, she jumped, the truck started, he sighed. His heart punchs the walls of his insides like it was a prisioner about to be executed.

Álvaro searches in the adult magazine section for a woman that looks like that incredible woman he just encountered. Her hand was cold, he grabs a popsicle after throwing an adult magazine inside his backpack. She didn’t smell like anything, what was really weird because women smell nice. Her eyes and her smile just keep coming back to his memory, it’s infuriating. “Why didn’t I just do something? I am such a moron! I will never see her again. I want to kiss her so much.”. Angry thoughts fill his mind and he just sits on his chair and sighs helplessly. ‘Clang!’, he gets startled and looks at where the noise came from, right beside him, and there was a golden looking sword hilt, bladeless, with a short cross-guard, appearing to be of a medium sword. On the other side of the counter there was a black man, huge, and it was like he just teleported there. Álvaro rubbed his eyes and took some deep breaths because this was some night he was having, maybe that was it, he was crazy. “No you are not. This is real.”, he calms down after thinking that. The black man that was bending his back and knees not to hit the ceiling looked down on him and smiled the scariest smile ever seen. “You will see me again. When you do I want you to answer me something: are you glad?”. Then that giant black man walks out of the gas station, turns to the side, walks, and is gone. Álvaro watches him leave and after that goes to the computer, his left hand holds onto the golden sword hilt and he just doesn’t seem to find that odd. It’s like he forgot that thing was even part of that macabre display of weirdness. That golden sword hilt was the tail of Tyrfing, which was safe guarded at Jotunheim, in the ice castle of Nibelungen, then when the valkyries invaded Jotunheim they took it and put it in Asgard and were guarding it with all their eyes. Then Loki Laufeyjarson snapped his fingers and… ‘clang!’.

“They wish for fate but do not desire to carry it.”. Loki reaches a road, concrete with white lines going along its extension and a fragmented line in the middle. “They wish for death but will not draw the sword. Will not bleed. Will not rise to the fight, bring the fight. They shrink and grab onto a false promise, an end that will never come unless then summon it.”. The Laufeyjarson orphan never thought of himself as evil in the past, not until he discovered his untold power, not until he was aware of what he could actually do. He feared, he felt ashamed, and then he understood. The fear of Ragnarok made the aesir act in the darkness of truth, concrete actions or concrete threat. There was no threat, they were children, as the heroes of Asgard were. Odin was training his own kin and was training mansir without knowledge of his equals, but Loki knew. Loki could see Odin’s secrets, he could read them in his eyes, and thought all aesir were granted that gift. “Mistaken. These are your eyes for you are the son of Lodur, the son of the ether, the giver of blood, the red king. I am the green king, the lord of the runes, the giver of mind, the All-Father, Odin. The last is the blue queen, the giver of will, the master of the disir, mother of valkyries, Herja. The three of us are fated to fight and die by eachother’s hand. The time of that will be decided by which one strikes first.”, that memory now seems far away even that it was this conversation that brought the wronged aesir here, right now. He decided to strike first and start the war, or to end the war. Depends on what each one considers to be war. Laufeyjarson was the son of ether, heir of the power and bane of Lodur, which consumed him. He was the ether. Ether is the energy of everything that is, that exists, living and unliving. In analogy Odin is the lord of memories, of everything that was, that existed, and the runes seal away what one was or bring back what one used to be. And Herja is the lord of wills, of everything that can become, will be, and that is what a valkyrie is, in essence: raw and unlimited potential. Undying potential. Those powers cannot be within the grasp of one and so the worlds and folk came to be to carry that power and be a channel or source for them. From the giver of blood came war and those who wage war, the nibelungen. From the giver of mind came those who keep the memory of war, the poets. And from the giver of wills came those who end wars, the enherjar. By the nature of each king it should have been obvious who would strike first, but much had happened.

Laufeyjarson doesn’t use his power much often because it is far too great, he would need a way to control it to be able to use it in a large scale… but he manages to use it in fragments. Eventually those fragments came to be what amused the wronged aesir as he could trick the ones around him by manipulating what is, the present, the perception of reality or even reality itself. The idea of it was simple, trick the folk against themselves. Starting wars without being in any. That was how he made the Aesir-Vanir war happen, by tricking some of the folk in each world to compete until it became personal enough. Because that makes sense to him, because it is personal to him and that was when he understood why Ragnarok needed to start. He is a creature of conflict and it fills him up completely, almost as completely as Hel’s smile. It is all one. Love, war, blood, happiness, death, the moment. He cannot change reality to something that doesn’t have war, pain, injustice. Not unless he destroys everything. And maybe after the waters recede the gods that remain after Ragnarok can make a better world. “Yes. That is why starting this whole thing matters, so the next world can have a chance.”. Laufeyjarson has made his peace with it and just wishes to enjoy the ride while it crashes, and now as his huge smile unravels itself he sees a big truck approaching his direction. He walks on the road and stops in the middle, looks at the truck and it just stops, the driver opens the door and gets out, they both go to the back of the truck and the driver opens it.

Midgard, or Mannheim, was created by Odin using the severed head of the ancestral giant Ymir. On the process of making the world the head was already full of maggots, which upon transformation became the creatures the seven world folk knew and calls until this day as “nidavellir”. The dwarfs. Curious folk, the dwarfs, because as the maggots of Ymir they harnessed the properties of Ymir’s flesh and upon transformation harnessed the properties of the elements of the earth. When a nidavell baby is fed an element it becomes the lord of that element. Not all nidavellir are lords of elements and the choosing of which is bestowed this honor is through ritual and decided by caste. There are two types of elemental lords: wielder and smithy. Wielder is a nidavell lord that can manipulate his element freely and smithy is a nidavell lord that can manipulate the state of his element freely. Elemental lords cannot be harmed by the elements they were fed. Some would claim that this is a blessing but as the flesh of Ymir was rotting already every single quality the seven world folk inherited to themselves brought together a negative effect, or a curse. To this the seven world folk gave a name, one that is more common on the lips of the lesser folk: reparatur. Balance. Justice. “Ymir is just”, another famous quote from lesser folk. The nidavellir curse is one that is very known but rarely seen by naked eye, the lone tear curse. A nidavell elemental lord is very strong and powerful despite the small stature however when the heart becomes struck by great pain a tear bursts from the wee warrior’s eye, turning him into the real Ymir maggot. A dragon. Maybe the nidavellir were supposed to be dragons from the start, but something happened. The nidavellir nowadays are a folk in seek of reparatur since they lost the Aesir-Vanir war and suffered great humiliation. The greatest nidavell creations were taken from the great halls and hands from their legitimate people and are now in the grasp of disgusting aesir and vanir, and alfar! The damned light elves! That was unaceptable! The dwarfs were getting ready to revenge, preparing the greatest nidavell king there ever was, lord of the biggest element there was, lord of life. But then right before the baptism could be performed the valkyries grabbed the heir of the throne, the lord of life, Ivar, and his protectors with him. Protecting the future king were two great nidavell generals, the lord wielder of metal and fire, Dvalin, and the lord wielder of lighting and rocks, Durinn. Those were the ones protecting the king because they were the ones that managed to create the godslayer, the golem beast, the golden panther, Tyrfing. It was created with the approval of the seven world folk because there had been made a pact where the one to be the master of Tyrfing was to be a mansir, a war witness, for Midgard was a neutral ground with no quarrel with any other world. The nidavell had no such intention, or were led to not have, and the valkyries knew so, or were led to know so, and then everything took place. The three nidavell were dropped off at Mannheim and captured by a midgardian government research center. Ivar was kept at the center and Dvalin and Durinn were put on a fully equiped truck to be transported to another center…

Dvalin and Durinn wake up, dizzy from the sedatives, and see themselves inside a strange vessel. They see moonlight casting from outside and reach towards it finding themselves at Mannheim. There is no one else around. They see the Aurora Borealis forming in the sky and know exactly what that means. Valkyries!

Rain. The door stood there. His eyes peeked at the door and under it, searching for shadows, searching for a presence outside. He was coming. On his cellphone a notification hit, on the e-mail box, it read: “payment confirmed”. He had suffered enough, his sins have already been too much and that amount of suffering must add to an amount that pays for a reward. “You are being shipped”. Yes. He was coming. The better version of himself, the version of himself that was ready, that had learned anything, the adult one. “Hormones hit but never really HIT”, knitting with his mind while staring at the foggy window, “They disguise you into something that looks like an adult. They change you on the outside”. Staring at the windows, at the door, at the wall, no real horizon in him, no no no, not with the door closed, not with the windows closed, not with his walls standing. His mind was the same and his eyes would still cry, the smile would get rusty in an almost literal way due to the bad hygiene and the standing up would get slow, hesitant, rarer and rarer. His eyes felt the raindrops on the windows like a dorment limb feels, a skincrawl on the glass that would last as long as the raindrops would last. Was it ever going to stop? Would a shadow ever be cast under the door? Would the rarer standing up after each fall ever be undone? What was draining all the energy from his life? Was it the hope of becoming diferent from some magic? Or the contradictory scepticism of this magic that sometimes is bullshit and other times is all we have? Who gets to decide? Why even? Maybe he knew the answer but he needed to knock on the door and tell himself… or maybe he needed to just go outside… ?

Deep breaths. Maybe he disappointed himself, his younger version, the ten-year-old kid with the same sense of humor still. Waters run deep in the window. He wonders if he grew up wrong, if the timing of anything was off. When he kissed a girl, when he had sex, when he started questioning, when he stopped looking and started seeing, when any meaning went away at the sight of the truth. And so because of some mistake he was not coming back, he would not descend from the heavens and save himself. The answers. “What do I do now?” would be the chapter of each day. If only he knew what he never learns then, THEN… No clouds can be seen yet it rains, only the color gray, blue overruled, tea time perhaps. Would it be wise to make it for two? Maybe now is the time to be ready, maybe that is the reason, it’s because he never bothers to and just waits for it to happen. Several knocks on the windows but zero on the door. His eyes get fixated on the door knob, like he could just see it turning as someone tried to enter without him noticing and just… do… something? That is a ridiculous thought, was, will be forever, the mere image of that actually taking place just spouts arrogance. Who was he to even imagine that anyone would be interested in such an attempt? Not even himself would show up at the door, why would anyone else? Crazy. A few individuals or reasons could be enumerated but the believable scope of the scenario is no one, ever. So why wait, even? Why let the water that caresses the world be a hinder? No one is coming. There is no being ready, only getting ready, so just go. Just? Go? Then what? Just be out and going and then… come back? Come back to what? To the empty house, to the staring windows and the listening walls and predictable door? Will he be waiting then? Would he be proud of himself, the ten-year-old?

Although he got the notification, the expectation, it was not a fact. It was a closed door, a closed box with something inside, or nothing at all. A magic trick that he keeps doing without knowing, resisting to accept belief is a bet and he was losing. Days never repeat, only actions. He was never coming back because he was already there and to come back he had to go first. To be ready he had to act and be wrong, and learn. But was that the door to the outside or it led to another room? Was it all meaningless? Would standing up once more and venturing inside the outside world worth the shot or would it just be wasted effort? How would he know before knowing? Could disappointment and suffering or just annoyance be avoided? It could not. Maybe breaking the window would be better. Horizontally objective. Was he too high up or on ground level? That is a far less intimidating question. He looked. Before he saw he knew: the raindrops only hit the window, ceiling and walls, not the ground floor. It was far away, breaking it wasn’t an option now, but at least truth. Back to the door, less threatening now the windows broke the news. He just stood and went and through door through door he started to descend. In a few minutes he got to the ground floor and now the last door stood with its door knob knitting on his mind and shadows too shy to cast under it. Would it open? Every single one did but WHAT IF… no no no. Crazy again. He walked towards it and stopped, placing his ear on the door and hearing the numbing raindrops at it like his own skin was under the water particles. He then held the door knob with a feather hand and twisted and pulled and out he was.

The notification was gone from his cellphone.