Nic's Scribbles

V igdis came to a stop when she could see the river along the track way.  Nine nights ago she had died and began her walk to where she knew she must go. Helheim. The thought of it did not please her. She had died twice before. Her Blasa, her first death, was when she had stopped being a dweller of Midgard and stopped drawing breath. She had met Modgudr that time and knew that she would meet her again very soon. Modgudr, the Watcher who waited at the gates to the realm where Hel keeps those who died what some saw as ignoble deaths. Vigdis was lucky, for with Modgudr that day was another woman, one who would take her to a fair field, where people laughed and where there was joy and merriment and feasting. Folkvangr. But Vigdis was never satisfied with just relaxing, she needed to feel alive, even after dying. She had found her way to Kvasheim and the thousand meadhalls. There she had met others and they traded stories and gone on adventures and she had died her second death.

Kvasir sat next to the fireplace in the meadhall glad for the warmth of it. He'd spent three days out with a band of Jotnar, frost giants, and he thought the cold had settled into his bones forever. He reached under his red woollen cloak into a small pouch and pulled forth the Kvashorn, his personal drinking horn that would never empty providing the observances of dutiful hospitality were observed. And after a long drink he looked around the meadhall.   This one was sparsely populated, and the folk who sat at the tables were a brutal looking lot. No binders of runes or folk of cunning words. Each was scarred and wore old pieces of armour and weapons that had seen better days. Every single one of them had a gaunt look, their skin was ashen grey despite the flickering of the fireplace. He knew their type. Draugr. The dead who were bound to their bodies and could not pass to any other hall of the gods for final rest. Why Hel allowed them to roam was a mystery to everyone, incl

The old man, in his wide brimmed hat, took up the horn and took a sip from it before smiling and winking with his one good eye at the women who sat across from him.  They sat in no meadhall, but in a large clearing surrounded by a dense and deep snowy forest. "So Wanderer, what does the brew of Kvasir make your lips want to say this evening.." "Ah, perhaps the tale of how i sacrificed myself to myself and gained the knowledge of the runes.." "Pfft.. everyone knows that tale" came a wry laugh from the forest. "Then what of you oh Scarred of Lips.. would you drink from the Kvashorn with your bloodbrother and the Lady.." Wanderer called out to where the voice had come. He knew already that the speaker had moved but could not tell where to until the hand touched his shoulder from behind. "I would never be so uncouth as to deny the Lady nor my bloodbrother the gift of my company.." and the man reached forth to take the drinking horn.

As the Kvashorn passed from one person to the next it never grew any emptier despite how deep each took a draught of the sweet red mead.  Bjorn stood as it was passed to him and before he took a long deep drink he called out loudly "Skadi, i drink this in your name! You have ever watched over me and allowed me to hunt as you do!" Bjorn smacked his lips once he had drunk his fill and passed the Kvashorn to the woman who sat across from him, he had a year ago, when she arrived heard that she was called Kenna the Wise and he always enjoyed hearing her tales even if they were not of the hunt of or the kill. Kenna lifted the Kvashorn above her head and looked to the rafters of the meadhall in which they all sat. "Kvasir, you who are wise i take this draught in your name, let the wisdom of your blood fill me.." and she tipped her head back as she tilted the drinking horn allowing a long stream of the sweet red mead to fill her mouth before swallowing, grinning and p

  The winds rattled the wooden shutters on the hut.  “My son shall need to tan new hides to keep the draught out if he if to marry again and would live here” Kenna thought to herself as she put the bone needle through the cloth, drawing the fine golden thread through with each careful stab of the needle and creating a pattern more beautiful than others had ever seen her make in the last twenty years. As the wind blew once again, this time more forceful, the wooden latch on the door snapped and the door blew inwards bringing with it a lash of rain. “My daughter will need to fix that come the new moon when the rains will begin in earnest as they always do at this time of year” Kenna sighed to herself as she finished her sewing and put down what she had made carefully. She took the remaining golden yarn, barely an arms length, and tossed it on the fire along with the bone needle. She had judged it well. She had been sewing for over two hundred years so she knew how much to keep spare

  Agni stumbled and fell to his knees. The hard ground tore at his already damaged breeches and shards of ice and rock cut deeply in to his knees. “Where..” he managed to mumble before some one struck him from behind. The axe bit deep into his rib cage but he couldn't feel it. All he could feel was the cold, his hands numbed from fighting all day and his sword fell from his grasp. He reached out as a blast of snow obscured his vision causing him to see nothing but swirls of white. And as the axe fell again he saw red. Blood, his blood. And then he saw nothing.   When he woke up later that day Agni looked around, he was sat at a great table in a great hall, hundreds of men and women sat there, horns filled with frothy ale or heady mead. Some one struck him on the back, as hard as the axe that killed him and he looked round sharply, a snarl on his lips. “HA! I got you again Agni, three days running now I have killed you. You are lucky you are one of the Einherjar or