#wyrdverse — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #wyrdverse, aggregated by home.social.
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Celebrating the eleven () year anniversary of Stormbringer by finally formatting Bad Meme for print . . .
(And also getting my flu and Covid shots updated though that’s not technically related.)
(Actually I guess they are technically related because both “I should actually print this book so I can sell it next time we do a market table” and “I really really really do not want to get diseases from a warehouse packed with nerds” were thoughts both prompted by the con the other day. So.)
(Thankfully nerds seem to be pretty good at getting vaccinated? I’d actually be interested to see if anyone’s done some kind of study in rates of concrud post everyone getting more on-the-ball re. seasonal vaccines, hey.)
#BADMEME #bookNews #wyrdverse -
Celebrating the eleven () year anniversary of Stormbringer by finally formatting Bad Meme for print . . .
(And also getting my flu and Covid shots updated though that’s not technically related.)
(Actually I guess they are technically related because both “I should actually print this book so I can sell it next time we do a market table” and “I really really really do not want to get diseases from a warehouse packed with nerds” were thoughts both prompted by the con the other day. So.)
(Thankfully nerds seem to be pretty good at getting vaccinated? I’d actually be interested to see if anyone’s done some kind of study in rates of concrud post everyone getting more on-the-ball re. seasonal vaccines, hey.)
#BADMEME #bookNews #wyrdverse -
Celebrating the eleven () year anniversary of Stormbringer by finally formatting Bad Meme for print . . .
(And also getting my flu and Covid shots updated though that’s not technically related.)
(Actually I guess they are technically related because both “I should actually print this book so I can sell it next time we do a market table” and “I really really really do not want to get diseases from a warehouse packed with nerds” were thoughts both prompted by the con the other day. So.)
(Thankfully nerds seem to be pretty good at getting vaccinated? I’d actually be interested to see if anyone’s done some kind of study in rates of concrud post everyone getting more on-the-ball re. seasonal vaccines, hey.)
#BADMEME #bookNews #wyrdverse -
Celebrating the eleven () year anniversary of Stormbringer by finally formatting Bad Meme for print . . .
(And also getting my flu and Covid shots updated though that’s not technically related.)
(Actually I guess they are technically related because both “I should actually print this book so I can sell it next time we do a market table” and “I really really really do not want to get diseases from a warehouse packed with nerds” were thoughts both prompted by the con the other day. So.)
(Thankfully nerds seem to be pretty good at getting vaccinated? I’d actually be interested to see if anyone’s done some kind of study in rates of concrud post everyone getting more on-the-ball re. seasonal vaccines, hey.)
#BADMEME #bookNews #wyrdverse -
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I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
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I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
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I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
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I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
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I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
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So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to do for, like. Literally a decade? Finish uploading the rest of the Wyrdverse side-stories. These have been previously available as a little published volume, but are now are available via the magic of HTML! So . . . enjoy.
For what it’s worth, “Blue Sky Mine” is still the thing I cite when people ask me the favourite thing I’ve ever written. Mostly for the last line, but also because Port Hedland sure is a place that exists, huh.
Anyway, next little thing I’ve been meaning to do: Scribble up a cover and start, finally, posting Bad Meme, a.k.a. the unpublished third Wyrdverse book. So . . . look out for that one, I guess!
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So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to do for, like. Literally a decade? Finish uploading the rest of the Wyrdverse side-stories. These have been previously available as a little published volume, but are now are available via the magic of HTML! So . . . enjoy.
For what it’s worth, “Blue Sky Mine” is still the thing I cite when people ask me the favourite thing I’ve ever written. Mostly for the last line, but also because Port Hedland sure is a place that exists, huh.
Anyway, next little thing I’ve been meaning to do: Scribble up a cover and start, finally, posting Bad Meme, a.k.a. the unpublished third Wyrdverse book. So . . . look out for that one, I guess!
-
So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to do for, like. Literally a decade? Finish uploading the rest of the Wyrdverse side-stories. These have been previously available as a little published volume, but are now are available via the magic of HTML! So . . . enjoy.
For what it’s worth, “Blue Sky Mine” is still the thing I cite when people ask me the favourite thing I’ve ever written. Mostly for the last line, but also because Port Hedland sure is a place that exists, huh.
Anyway, next little thing I’ve been meaning to do: Scribble up a cover and start, finally, posting Bad Meme, a.k.a. the unpublished third Wyrdverse book. So . . . look out for that one, I guess!
-
So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to do for, like. Literally a decade? Finish uploading the rest of the Wyrdverse side-stories. These have been previously available as a little published volume, but are now are available via the magic of HTML! So . . . enjoy.
For what it’s worth, “Blue Sky Mine” is still the thing I cite when people ask me the favourite thing I’ve ever written. Mostly for the last line, but also because Port Hedland sure is a place that exists, huh.
Anyway, next little thing I’ve been meaning to do: Scribble up a cover and start, finally, posting Bad Meme, a.k.a. the unpublished third Wyrdverse book. So . . . look out for that one, I guess!
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In retrospect perhaps colouring this at the con could perhaps have been construed as passive aggressive???
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In retrospect perhaps colouring this at the con could perhaps have been construed as passive aggressive???
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In retrospect perhaps colouring this at the con could perhaps have been construed as passive aggressive???
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Going through and cleaning up some CSS and gallery styles for my site and I was reminded of this sketch (originally posted here).
. . . I really should colour this and make in my site’s 404 image, hey.
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Going through and cleaning up some CSS and gallery styles for my site and I was reminded of this sketch (originally posted here).
. . . I really should colour this and make in my site’s 404 image, hey.
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Going through and cleaning up some CSS and gallery styles for my site and I was reminded of this sketch (originally posted here).
. . . I really should colour this and make in my site’s 404 image, hey.
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Going through and cleaning up some CSS and gallery styles for my site and I was reminded of this sketch (originally posted here).
. . . I really should colour this and make in my site’s 404 image, hey.
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The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, to sing my passions to the sky, to beat to the pulse of the crowd for eternity, because what god could ever ignore his people?
Well. This god, for one.
“You were pretty good.”
Sigmund greets me on the ground, arms going around my waist and lips pressing against my cheek. I grin, accepting the affection, sweeter and better than the cheering of a thousand audiences.
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The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, to sing my passions to the sky, to beat to the pulse of the crowd for eternity, because what god could ever ignore his people?
Well. This god, for one.
“You were pretty good.”
Sigmund greets me on the ground, arms going around my waist and lips pressing against my cheek. I grin, accepting the affection, sweeter and better than the cheering of a thousand audiences.
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The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, to sing my passions to the sky, to beat to the pulse of the crowd for eternity, because what god could ever ignore his people?
Well. This god, for one.
“You were pretty good.”
Sigmund greets me on the ground, arms going around my waist and lips pressing against my cheek. I grin, accepting the affection, sweeter and better than the cheering of a thousand audiences.
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The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, to sing my passions to the sky, to beat to the pulse of the crowd for eternity, because what god could ever ignore his people?
Well. This god, for one.
“You were pretty good.”
Sigmund greets me on the ground, arms going around my waist and lips pressing against my cheek. I grin, accepting the affection, sweeter and better than the cheering of a thousand audiences.
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Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr.
“This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.”
“My father’s future?” Forseti had asked.
“Aye,” said Odin, and the black beasts on his shoulders had rustled their feathers and clicked their beaks, and Forseti had believed it. Believed in Odin’s war, believed in his father’s sacrifice. Believed that, come the Ragnarøkkr, Baldr would return from Hel, bright and shining, and would rule over the Realms, and all would be as it should.
Forseti had believed this with all his heart. And so he had watched Grandfather and his einherjar march off to die, and had been content.
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Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr.
“This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.”
“My father’s future?” Forseti had asked.
“Aye,” said Odin, and the black beasts on his shoulders had rustled their feathers and clicked their beaks, and Forseti had believed it. Believed in Odin’s war, believed in his father’s sacrifice. Believed that, come the Ragnarøkkr, Baldr would return from Hel, bright and shining, and would rule over the Realms, and all would be as it should.
Forseti had believed this with all his heart. And so he had watched Grandfather and his einherjar march off to die, and had been content.
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Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr.
“This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.”
“My father’s future?” Forseti had asked.
“Aye,” said Odin, and the black beasts on his shoulders had rustled their feathers and clicked their beaks, and Forseti had believed it. Believed in Odin’s war, believed in his father’s sacrifice. Believed that, come the Ragnarøkkr, Baldr would return from Hel, bright and shining, and would rule over the Realms, and all would be as it should.
Forseti had believed this with all his heart. And so he had watched Grandfather and his einherjar march off to die, and had been content.
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Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr.
“This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.”
“My father’s future?” Forseti had asked.
“Aye,” said Odin, and the black beasts on his shoulders had rustled their feathers and clicked their beaks, and Forseti had believed it. Believed in Odin’s war, believed in his father’s sacrifice. Believed that, come the Ragnarøkkr, Baldr would return from Hel, bright and shining, and would rule over the Realms, and all would be as it should.
Forseti had believed this with all his heart. And so he had watched Grandfather and his einherjar march off to die, and had been content.
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We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it.
“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.
“What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, he’d have fallen off miles ago. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And . . . a horn?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound. Jötnar don’t have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.
“It’s coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.
Þrúðr doesn’t respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.
“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”
Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.
Sleipnir isn’t a horse, but he’s still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.
And just as quickly wish we hadn’t.
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We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it.
“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.
“What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, he’d have fallen off miles ago. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And . . . a horn?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound. Jötnar don’t have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.
“It’s coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.
Þrúðr doesn’t respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.
“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”
Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.
Sleipnir isn’t a horse, but he’s still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.
And just as quickly wish we hadn’t.
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We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it.
“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.
“What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, he’d have fallen off miles ago. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And . . . a horn?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound. Jötnar don’t have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.
“It’s coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.
Þrúðr doesn’t respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.
“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”
Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.
Sleipnir isn’t a horse, but he’s still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.
And just as quickly wish we hadn’t.
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We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it.
“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.
“What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, he’d have fallen off miles ago. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And . . . a horn?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound. Jötnar don’t have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.
“It’s coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.
Þrúðr doesn’t respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.
“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”
Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.
Sleipnir isn’t a horse, but he’s still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.
And just as quickly wish we hadn’t.
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“How long till their arrival?”
Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed by a fresh corpse and a birdbath full of mead.
Forseti, however, wasn’t coughing up any of it.
“A day,” Munin said. “Maybe less.” It hopped backward again as Forseti paced. The kid didn’t look well. Sort of gaunt and pale. Haggard and washed out. And Munin would’ve sworn he was favoring a single eye.
Not to mention he was still holding Gungnir. Munin wondered if the kid even put it down to sleep.
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“How long till their arrival?”
Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed by a fresh corpse and a birdbath full of mead.
Forseti, however, wasn’t coughing up any of it.
“A day,” Munin said. “Maybe less.” It hopped backward again as Forseti paced. The kid didn’t look well. Sort of gaunt and pale. Haggard and washed out. And Munin would’ve sworn he was favoring a single eye.
Not to mention he was still holding Gungnir. Munin wondered if the kid even put it down to sleep.
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“How long till their arrival?”
Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed by a fresh corpse and a birdbath full of mead.
Forseti, however, wasn’t coughing up any of it.
“A day,” Munin said. “Maybe less.” It hopped backward again as Forseti paced. The kid didn’t look well. Sort of gaunt and pale. Haggard and washed out. And Munin would’ve sworn he was favoring a single eye.
Not to mention he was still holding Gungnir. Munin wondered if the kid even put it down to sleep.
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Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain.
I wait until Sigmund is long asleep before moving. It is nice, lying there, feeling the weight of his body and the coolness of his skin. The way he snuffles softly and nuzzles against the pillows when I stroke his forearm, his shoulder, his chest.
His neck.
My hand is clutching his throat before I realize I can’t move it.
(no!)
(“you owe me a debt, boy. now you will repay it”)
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Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain.
I wait until Sigmund is long asleep before moving. It is nice, lying there, feeling the weight of his body and the coolness of his skin. The way he snuffles softly and nuzzles against the pillows when I stroke his forearm, his shoulder, his chest.
His neck.
My hand is clutching his throat before I realize I can’t move it.
(no!)
(“you owe me a debt, boy. now you will repay it”)
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Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain.
I wait until Sigmund is long asleep before moving. It is nice, lying there, feeling the weight of his body and the coolness of his skin. The way he snuffles softly and nuzzles against the pillows when I stroke his forearm, his shoulder, his chest.
His neck.
My hand is clutching his throat before I realize I can’t move it.
(no!)
(“you owe me a debt, boy. now you will repay it”)
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Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside.
To say things were tense would be an understatement.
Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just . . . crying.
“Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved.
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Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside.
To say things were tense would be an understatement.
Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just . . . crying.
“Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved.
-
Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside.
To say things were tense would be an understatement.
Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just . . . crying.
“Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved.
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There were whispers in the corridors now. Æsir and ásynjur who would not meet his eyes. Mother’s doing, Forseti knew. Weaving rebellion and discontent amid Ásgarðr’s bright and shining halls.
“You must call the þing.” Víðarr had said, seated beside Forseti at morning meal. “This cannot go on.”
But it could. How else could anything go? How could Forseti, god of law and justice, be seen to be brought low by the gossip and conspiracies of women? Of Hel and her foul beasts, who danced and wailed every night beyond the Wall, brewing madness and discontent.
The halls of Gimlé had been empty last night, the endless feast of the einherjar abandoned. Today, when Forseti walked the Wall, many of the warriors turned from him, stiff-backed and defiant, gazes fixed out across the Line. Behind the shields and banners, the runes and signs, Forseti heard laughter. Singing. The beat of drums and the strumming of the strange modern lyres the new dead brought with them to the grave.
In contrast, Ásgarðr was cold and empty. Anger and sadness dripping from its gold-lined eaves.
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There were whispers in the corridors now. Æsir and ásynjur who would not meet his eyes. Mother’s doing, Forseti knew. Weaving rebellion and discontent amid Ásgarðr’s bright and shining halls.
“You must call the þing.” Víðarr had said, seated beside Forseti at morning meal. “This cannot go on.”
But it could. How else could anything go? How could Forseti, god of law and justice, be seen to be brought low by the gossip and conspiracies of women? Of Hel and her foul beasts, who danced and wailed every night beyond the Wall, brewing madness and discontent.
The halls of Gimlé had been empty last night, the endless feast of the einherjar abandoned. Today, when Forseti walked the Wall, many of the warriors turned from him, stiff-backed and defiant, gazes fixed out across the Line. Behind the shields and banners, the runes and signs, Forseti heard laughter. Singing. The beat of drums and the strumming of the strange modern lyres the new dead brought with them to the grave.
In contrast, Ásgarðr was cold and empty. Anger and sadness dripping from its gold-lined eaves.
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In the end, it was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. Not mine, even. At least, not exactly.
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In the end, it was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. Not mine, even. At least, not exactly.
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In the end, it was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. Not mine, even. At least, not exactly.
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In the end, it was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. Not mine, even. At least, not exactly.
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He did what?”
From across the table, Þrúðr’s eyes were cold, hard chips of stone.
Sigmund, meanwhile, was getting sore fingers from rubbing at his own.
“This mess is Loki’s. It was he who wove this wicked plot.”
Meaning Loki—meaning Lain—had been the one who’d suggested trading Þrúðr to the dvergar. For a belt and some fucking gloves.
“I’m going to kill him.” Immortal god or not, Sigmund was going to do it. Again. A spear through the other heart, this time.
“He is a beast.”
Þrúðr was not sympathetic to Sigmund’s plight. Not that he could blame her.
The five of them were assembled around a table. Þrúðr and Uni on one side, Sigmund, Valdís, and Eisa on the other. Everyone else was somewhere outside, under orders of cease-fire.
“He’s not . . . not that bad, really.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but Sigmund could see how Þrúðr may have had a different perspective.
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What are they doing?”
Morning, and Forseti stood atop the Wall, staring out over the writhing black morass of Hel’s army. So many damned and rotting souls, thieves and cowards, oath breakers and murderers. Dancing mad dances beneath the scythe-clawed talons of nightmares made flesh, chaos-spawned get of Loki, folly of Odin, betrayer of Ásgarðr.
Fingers curling tight around Gungnir’s haft, Forseti swore he would not make his grandfather’s mistakes. Whatever the cost.
The einheri beside him huffed, rubbing a hand across his clean-shaven chin. One of Ásgarðr’s newer warriors, dressed in strange and flimsy greens. He’d introduced himself as Private Johns, and Forseti did not know if this was a name or a title. Modern mortals could be . . . confusing.
“Well,” Private said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were protesting.”
Over the Wall, a thousand voices chanted, sound carried on the wind. The words spoken in the mortal’s modern tongue, saying:
One. Two. Three. Four. Release our boys from Odin’s war.
-
The Thorbleed is a desolate, lightning-cracked wasteland, though, thankfully, it isn’t raining.
Unthankfully, I’m still fucking soaked from when it was. I take comfort in the fact that Magni and Móði share this fate, and that wet armor is a lot more miserable than damp feathers.
Then I remember I’m a fucking fire god and—one self-immolation later—I’m substantially drier and on the receiving end of a truly baleful look from Magni.
All around us, lightning cracks and arcs. Other than that, there really isn’t much here. A stormy, low-hanging sky and an endless landscape of dark pentagonal pavers, erupting from the ground into weird, alien staircases.
Columnar basalt, it’s called. A natural formation, found in such popular tourist locales as Ireland’s Giant’s Causeway, and Iceland’s Svartifoss.
Not one foot from yours truly, sitting atop one such a formation, is the thing we’ve come all this fucking way to find.
Mjölnir.
“Voilà,” I say.
-
The Thorbleed is a desolate, lightning-cracked wasteland, though, thankfully, it isn’t raining.
Unthankfully, I’m still fucking soaked from when it was. I take comfort in the fact that Magni and Móði share this fate, and that wet armor is a lot more miserable than damp feathers.
Then I remember I’m a fucking fire god and—one self-immolation later—I’m substantially drier and on the receiving end of a truly baleful look from Magni.
All around us, lightning cracks and arcs. Other than that, there really isn’t much here. A stormy, low-hanging sky and an endless landscape of dark pentagonal pavers, erupting from the ground into weird, alien staircases.
Columnar basalt, it’s called. A natural formation, found in such popular tourist locales as Ireland’s Giant’s Causeway, and Iceland’s Svartifoss.
Not one foot from yours truly, sitting atop one such a formation, is the thing we’ve come all this fucking way to find.
Mjölnir.
“Voilà,” I say.
-
The Thorbleed is a desolate, lightning-cracked wasteland, though, thankfully, it isn’t raining.
Unthankfully, I’m still fucking soaked from when it was. I take comfort in the fact that Magni and Móði share this fate, and that wet armor is a lot more miserable than damp feathers.
Then I remember I’m a fucking fire god and—one self-immolation later—I’m substantially drier and on the receiving end of a truly baleful look from Magni.
All around us, lightning cracks and arcs. Other than that, there really isn’t much here. A stormy, low-hanging sky and an endless landscape of dark pentagonal pavers, erupting from the ground into weird, alien staircases.
Columnar basalt, it’s called. A natural formation, found in such popular tourist locales as Ireland’s Giant’s Causeway, and Iceland’s Svartifoss.
Not one foot from yours truly, sitting atop one such a formation, is the thing we’ve come all this fucking way to find.
Mjölnir.
“Voilà,” I say.
-
The Thorbleed is a desolate, lightning-cracked wasteland, though, thankfully, it isn’t raining.
Unthankfully, I’m still fucking soaked from when it was. I take comfort in the fact that Magni and Móði share this fate, and that wet armor is a lot more miserable than damp feathers.
Then I remember I’m a fucking fire god and—one self-immolation later—I’m substantially drier and on the receiving end of a truly baleful look from Magni.
All around us, lightning cracks and arcs. Other than that, there really isn’t much here. A stormy, low-hanging sky and an endless landscape of dark pentagonal pavers, erupting from the ground into weird, alien staircases.
Columnar basalt, it’s called. A natural formation, found in such popular tourist locales as Ireland’s Giant’s Causeway, and Iceland’s Svartifoss.
Not one foot from yours truly, sitting atop one such a formation, is the thing we’ve come all this fucking way to find.
Mjölnir.
“Voilà,” I say.
-
There were a lot of þursar in the forest. A lot. Like, a whole army’s worth, Sigmund following along behind Skinnhúfa, stumbling over roots and running into branches the whole way.
When they got to the camp, Skinnhúfa barked at Sigmund to stay put, left six huge jötnar to guard him, then vanished off into the crowd. Valdís followed, Eisa and Sleipnir stayed behind.
It occurred to Sigmund, as he sat himself down beneath the watchful gaze of his excessive detachment of guards, that he was a prisoner. Again. He’d never been a prisoner before all of this. The closest he’d ever gotten was detention once at school for calling out his year-seven comp sci teacher, Mr. Hennessey. That’d been a long time ago, and sort of how he’d become friends with Em. They’d gotten back an assignment, Em’s had been marked wrong in a way Sigmund’s hadn’t, for more or less the same answer. Em had tried to argue her case before the class. Mr. Hennessey had told her she was wrong, and Sigmund had known the guy’d been lying about it. So he’d said so, and wound up in detention.
-
I fucking hate the ocean. Hate it. Hate hate hate. Almost as much as I fucking hate caves. I’m a thing of fire and of air, of movement and chaos and light. All this dark dank plodding bullshit makes me twitchier than a roo on a highway.
Being stuck in a cave on a boat in the ocean? Surrounded by a bunch of dvergar and the bratty sons of Thor? Not my idea of a great holiday.
I spend most of my time smoking. The cigarettes aren’t real, but with one hand free I’ve got enough narrative trickery in me to conjure up the memory of ash and nicotine, if only for a little while.
-
It all started with Sif’s hair. Specifically, her lack of it, on the morning she woke up to find it shorn. Being understandably displeased with this state of affairs, Sif summoned her husband, Thor, and the pair determined the haircutting prankster to be none other than one Loki Laufeyjarson.
And so it was that Thor found Loki, took him by the shoulders, and threatened to break every bone in the jötunn’s body. Unenthused by this possibility, Loki swore to Thor that he would seek out the services of the dvergar, the greatest craftsmen in the Realms, to make Sif a wig to cover her stubbly scalp. And not just any wig, Loki claimed, but one with hair made from solid gold, and enchanted such that when Sif placed it on her skin, it would become part of her, and the hair would grow as if it were her own.
Sif was pleased enough with this promise, secretly thinking Loki would never be able to keep it, and so Thor released the hapless jötunn, in order that he may make the long trek through the Myrkviðr, to the placed called Niðavellir, where the dvergar made their home.