Day Three of the Odinsleep - The Halls of Valhalla (part 4)

Day Three of the Odinsleep (10pm - Midnight)

 

 

The crone narrows her eyes, and Korbin feels her gaze sweep over him, smiles, revealing teeth made of iron, “The sparketh of imm’rtality he carryeth wilt beest our price. Doth thee concur, Korbin of Aesopica?”

 

Korbin pauses when asked the question. “My immortality…I’ll have to think about it.” The crow takes flight and glides over to a nearby tree to roost and ponder what would be a limited lifespan. The youngest of the women joins him, “What is thither to thinketh about? It isn’t thee that’s immortal, just thy office. Should thee perish, another bird will inherit thy mantle and continueth as the Crow of Aesop.”

 

Korbin looks the young woman, “And what would you do with my immortality if I give it up?” he asks.

 

The Norn looks toward the pool and the two swans swimming in its still waters, I would giveth it to her. We has't the gift of foresight and knoweth what wilt cometh to pass. The love of a mother has't procured promises against harm from all things save one but that lady son wilt still fall. His death wilt signal the coming of Ragnarok. This world wilt beest consumed by fire and all wilt burn to ash. We would save the Swan Mother if 't be true tis in our power to doth so.”

 

Meanwhile, back at the mead hall...

 

Ra’ziir, Shadow, and Desmond all begin slipping out of the hall, intent on returning to the smithy for some much needed rest. Grog moves to one side of the hall and clears off a table and reaches into one of his pouches and pulls out a book. He begins unfolding it again and again until it is nearly the size of the table. He produces a charcoal stick from another pocket and begins writing about the events of what has happened to him so far in this new land.

 

Niklas and Raven pace at the edge of the crowd. Both of them slowly work on the drinks that Grotto gave them. Niklas thanks Raven for the lessons in swordsmanship he has received so far and asks if there will be more to follow. The elf nods, eager to turn his thoughts from Asgardian drama and the near-death of so many of his companions earlier in the day. “I am thinking that we should acquire a heavier blade for you to practice with, something that makes you work harder so when you wield your regular blade, it will be lighter and quicker in your hands.”

 

Bragi, the bearded harpist, smiles, “Answering the questions of Odin’s foretold defenders is no trouble at all. The All-Father has slept for as little as four days and for as many as ten. As for you performing for me, my wife and I would consider it an honor to hear something of yours this evening.”

 

Cedron smiles and bows to the god and his wife and slowly backs away, whispering the words to a prayer under his breath. Glowing fog and subtly flashing lights begin to appear around him as he begins to sing. The chime of a bell and a chorus of ghostly stringed instruments begin to accompany him. His song is the tale of a condemned man bound for the gallows. As the lyrics tell the tale, they describe how the man has never believed in the gods but knows fear now that his death draws near. As the prisoner dies, his soul ascends to search for the truth of what lies beyond in the afterlife. The telling of the tale is masterful. Cedron’s voice leaps and soars as he moves from one note to the next, accompanied by conjured lutes, mandolins, and lyres.

 

As he reaches the end of his song, all within earshot whoop and cheer. Morn lets out a loud shout of excitement, having never heard Cedron play or sing as well as he has just now. Bragi and his wife, Idun rise from their seats and approach him. The beautiful young woman lays a hand on the minstrel’s shoulder and beams at him, “Tomorrow, you and yours will not take the field. You shall stand beside me in my orchard and keep me company while my husband does battle.”

 

Drax slides through the crowd, somehow managing to remain unnoticed despite the hundreds, if not thousands of revelers who just watched the Valkyrie slam the Einherjar into the table moments ago. “I beg pardon for my intrusion and hope not to give offense but how is it that an Anunnaki such as you is tasked with serving these etemmu? Are you not a courier of the honored dead of this realm? I could not help but notice that you seem… displeased. I am Drax Nehili-Artzin, also a servant of the Reaper. May I offer assistance?”

 

The Valkyie frowns, “I perform the duties that are assigned to me, as do all of my sisters. Yes, we collect the souls of valiant warriors who fall in battle and bring them here to Valhalla. And, by Odin’s command, we brew and serve the mead that the fallen drink. But, more often than not, the warriors who fall are the most brash, the most loutish of their brethren and death does little to improve their behavior. I could bestow Odin’s Frenzy upon the fool who dared touch me and he would fight with the strength and fury of a dozen men and the power would consume him, burning him from the inside out until nothing remains to return to life here in Valhalla at the end of the day, and Oh! How I would love to do so but the day will come that all of these warriors are needed and knowing that even one missing soul could make the difference in the battle that will end all other battles means that I must stay my hand and hold my wrath at bay!” Her tirade ended, the Valkyrie looks Drax directly in the eye, “Mark my words, assassin, fall not on the field for an eternity spent amongst these fools is not a fate I would wish upon you or any of your companions, not even the one who seeks death.”

 

As the night begins to wind down and most of the Einherjar have fallen into drunken stupors, Grotto weaves his way through the much-thinned crowd. He chances upon one of the Valkyries and smiles at her, hopped up on liquid confidence, “You got the bottle, I got the cup, come baby let’s go…” the dwarf’s words trail off despite the maiden’s smile at his clumsy and drunken attempt at flirtation but Grotto, his senses dulled by the numerous intoxicants coursing through his system, sees only what he expects to see and hears only what he expects he hear as he turns away, imagined rejection spurring his retreat from this particular field of battle. His head droops as he staggers from the hall in search of solitude and a place to pray, “I was such a handsome dwarf before the goblins,” he thinks while snorting one of the many powders he carries on his person. The hit does little to lift his spirits but it does deaden the pain which, for Grotto, was almost as good as a single tear slipped down across the unbearded, scarred cheek.