Note: this is just a one-shot story. It's not the beginning of a new story arc.

THE VISITORS

The village was called Ashe and the name was more appropriate than most realized. The old man knew that over the long centuries the village had burned more than once. Although, admittedly, that wasn't exactly an unusual tale for this world.

In his time, the old man had seen many a place like Ashe. The village itself was situated on a hilltop, overlooking a small river. Scores of homes – small and large - were scattered about, and more were being built. Dogs, cats, chickens, and children were everywhere. Below the village were farm-fields and a water-mill. Fenced pastures held a prosperous variety of healthy livestock. The roads within the village itself were neatly graveled. A few groves of young apple trees were years away from bearing fruit, but their presence hinted at optimism for the future. There were more fortifications - including a stone stronghold - than might be expected, but there was a dangerous frontier not too far away, and the local lord apparently wasn't willing to gamble with the lives of his people.

The old man knew something about rulership. He approved of that last part.

Since it was a market-day, the village square was full of vendors and their wares. Locals had come from miles around and Ashe was packed with visitors.

One such visitor was an elderly man - apparently Folk. He was clad in decrepit leather armor, carrying a common spear, and the woolen cloak around his shoulders bore the colorful circular emblem of a tale-teller. He was broadly built and his maimed face suggested that the old man was no stranger to either hardship or bloodshed. For a man of his apparent age, he still had an aura of purpose and burly strength about him.

May - a young Blood-Elvish girl - bowed politely to the old man. After all, she'd been properly reared.

"Mr. Konungr! You're back!" she said in obvious delight. Her barbed tail lashed behind her in excitement. Her eagerness made the old man smile.

The old man sat on the edge of a market-cart. The owner seemed like he was about to say something, but then took a long look at the old man and decided that wouldn't be wise.

That was a wise decision.

May unhesitantly walked over to the old man and stood before him with her hands diffidently tucked behind her back.

"It's good to see you again!" May continued. There was a wide grin on her pale-blue face.

"Hello, young May," The old man replied gravely.

Then he glanced past May. "And hello to you, too, Oliver."

Oliver also bowed. "Mr. Konungr. Good t' see you."

The old man raised a bushy eyebrow. "You're speaking now? When did that happen?"

"Could alwa talk," Oliver solemnly informed the old man.

"Why didn't you?"

Oliver shrugged broadly - and with a seriousness that was far beyond his years. "Nothin' t' say."

The old man considered that. Then nodded.

"I see your point," he replied gravely. "Perhaps there are too many words in this world."

"But a'like y'r stories," Oliver said quickly.

That made the old man smile. Then he gestured to the other children.

"Who are your friends?"

Oliver glanced towards May, obviously deferring to her.

"These are Samantha, Sophie, and Sigmund," May said. "Samantha and Sophie have been taken in by my father. Sigmund is going to be the Sorcerer Supreme someday. He lives in Nyack, but he's visiting."

The old man took a moment to consider the children standing before him. Perhaps his gaze paused momentarily on the boy who May had casually announced would someday be the Sorcerer Supreme.

May was a mix of the Elf and Blood peoples. She had light-blue skin, coal-black hair, and the general form of her Elvish mother. A certain long ranginess to her limbs suggested her father's blood. And the old man could tell that she was someday going to be heart-breakingly lovely.

Samantha and Sophie were obviously sisters. They had dark-skin and hair, but it was their yellowish eyes that marked them as part-Creed. Their presence in the village was remarkable, since their kind tended not to survive for very long. Among the Creed, their lives were brutal and short. Meanwhile, the rest of the world despised them for the taint in their blood. None of that was fair, but it had nothing to do with justice.

Yet those two girls were walking about the village square, surrounded by Blood, Wilder, and Folk, as if they had not a care in the world. That was remarkable.

Oliver was a mix of Wilder, Blood, and Asgardian lineages. He was May's half-brother by Lord Ashe's third wife. As always, the old man noted the breadth of the boy's shoulders. Oliver was strong for his age, and he was only going to get stronger.

Sigmund was mostly Folk, but could claim a particularly important Asgardian as a many-times great-grandfather. He had his ancestor's green eyes and slender frame. The old man could only wonder what else the boy had inherited.

"Greetings," the old man told the children formally.

"Sir..." the children all growled as one.

"Will you be telling stories, Mr. Konungr?" May asked.

The old man looked amused by May's question. "Little May... telling tales is what I do. If I don't spin a story, then I don't eat."

They'd all moved to the edge of the market-place. The old man was sitting cross-legged, with his back to the wall of the local tavern. His spear was resting against the wall and the small wooden bowl of a tale-teller was on a broad cobblestone before him. Some copper coins were already in it. Once the old man deemed it full, he would tell a story.

The youngsters were facing him, seated in a rough semi-circle and waiting eagerly for the tale to begin.

An exhausted-looking Folk woman with a basket full of produce sat with them. She had two small children with her. She put a small silver coin into the bowl - a generous offering. The old man bowed his head to her. Her children solemnly contributed a copper each.

The old man smiled. "That's enough," he said. Then he looked expectantly at his audience.

"Harken to the tale of the Ironman," he began. His gravelly voice now pitched to carry farther than usual.

Everyone leaned forward. Some additional passersby also sat down. More coins clattered into the old man's bowl.

"In the late days of the Folk ascendancy" the old man began. "There was a great smith. He made fine and deadly weapons - the best of his time - although he himself did not take to the battlefield."

"His name was Stark. He was Anthony, son of Howard. And this is the tale of how he became the Ironman."

There was a whisper of excitement from the old man's audience, particularly from the children.

The old man continued.

"Stark's time was a decadent one that spurned both warriors and those who armed them. Oddly, it was also a time of great fighters and skilled weaponsmiths. In a far land beyond the sea, Stark brought his weapons to the samurai of his people. However, he became caught up in an ambush. His caravan was attacked and Stark saw many brave samurai cut down by enemy reavers. Stark himself was badly injured and dragged off to the lair of the raider chieftain."

"The chieftain demanded that Stark build for him a great weapon. A weapon that would ensure the chieftain's dominance over any rivals and perpetuate his cruel rule over the local Folk. Stark was badly injured and had only a short time left to live, but he was provided with an assistant named Yinsen. Yinsen was himself a man of great learning and cunning metal-work. Together, Stark and his companion devised a plan. They would create a weapon. And then they would give that weapon to their captor."

"Oh, yes, they would give it to him."

A rough chuckle came from the listeners. The old man smiled. His audiences always appreciated that particular flourish.

"Deception was of paramount importance. The raider chieftain couldn't know what Stark and his comrade were planning. So they set to work, but were careful to obscure every step of what they did. The goal was to have the weapon ready before the chieftain understood that it was completed - or what it could do."

"For although they did not know it, Stark and Yinsen weren't merely building just another soulless device of destruction as was common for that time. Instead, they were building something that would become a fearsome legend. Desperation had lent them genius. Fate had called upon them."

The old man paused as his audience held its breath.

"They were smithing the first Ironman."

The listeners let out a sigh. Heads nodded knowingly as grim smiles broke out. Of course, this part of the story was no surprise - it was well known. However, to name a thing was to invoke its power.

The old man continued. "The chieftain had his raiders keep an eye on Stark and Yinsen, but they were thoroughly deceived by the two smiths. As the days passed - and as Stark grew weaker and weaker from his injuries - the Ironman took shape."

"It was of roughly man-like shape, but seven foot tall. The steel of its armor was rough and unpolished, giving it a dull-gray color. The helm was a rounded cylinder with slits for the eyes and mouth. The arms and legs seemed inflexible at first glance, but the rough joints allowed for movement. Its strength was enormous, but unlike later Ironmen, it could not fly."

"Perhaps most important, there were cunning devices built into the Ironman that would keep Stark alive despite his injuries. If he could don the Ironman and fight his way free, Stark might live."

"Stark and Yinsen labored long and hard. And at last, the day came. The Ironman was almost ready, but one last step remained before it would come to life."

Then the old man paused. There was not a sound from his listeners.

"One more thing was required. The Ironman needed to be infused with lightning. That would give it the strength needed to confront the raiders and fight its way free. However, that process was long and arduous. It would take time, and time was becoming short. Stark didn't have long to live, and the raider chieftain was becoming suspicious."

"Stark and Yinsen set to work. Stark donned his armor... his weapon... and became one with the Ironman. Then the two smiths called upon the lightning. Thor gave his blessing to their work and the Ironman began to tremble as life flowed into it."

"But the raiders who were tasked with watching Stark and Yinsen had become fearful. They ran back to their master and reported that the two prisoner-smiths were raising a powerful and deadly creation. The chieftain angrily roared out his orders. The raiders were to go back, kill Stark and Yinsen, and seize control of their weapon."

"Meanwhile, Stark and Yinsen worked the desperation of men who needed just a little more time. A red needle encircled in glass was a talisman that symbolized the power needed to animate the Ironman. The needle rose slowly as the lightning surged and sang its way into the limbs of the Ironman."

"However, they were too late. The Ironman was not yet complete, but the raiders were approaching."

"That was when brave Yinsen left the smithy. His friend Stark only needed a little more time. Yinsen, weaponless and alone, ran to confront their enemies."

The old man paused and bowed his head.

"The end was inevitable. Yinsen asked for no quarter and fought as long as he could. He died under the soulless weapons of his time, wielded by the kind of men who are better at killing the defenseless than fighting those who are able to strike back."

"I regret that I cannot call upon and name the ancestors of Yinsen the Smith. They should know that men still tell the tale of his bravery, but unfortunately the names of Yinsen's fore-fathers are lost to time."

There was a respectful pause as the crowd considered Yinsen's tragedy. Then the old man resumed his tale.

"Stepping over Yinsen's lifeless corpse, their boots splashing through his honorably-given blood, the raiders continued into the smithy."

"But Stark was waiting for them. He had finally become the Ironman. He towered over his foes as he called out in anguish for his friend. But, of course, there could be no reply."

"The carnage that followed was suitable. The Ironman was drenched with the blood of his foes when he left the smithy. Behind him, the raiders were torn to pieces, their limbs rended from their bodies, and their guts roped over and around the tools of the smithy."

"Stark and the Ironman were now one. The world would know of them soon. And Stark was on his way to immortality."

"With grim and purposeful stride, the Ironman left the smithy and sought out the raider chieftain..."

Gant was a troll and that made him the biggest thing on two legs for miles around. He was always careful when he walked through crowds of smaller people. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

Gant had been brought to Earth - he still thought of it as 'Midgard' - as a war-slave of the Dark Elves. After the bloody defeat of the Dark Elves and the death of Malekith himself, Gant and his fellow slaves were startled to find themselves offered a new life. The culture of the Blood respected strength and courage and those were things that the enslaved Giants, Trolls, Ogres, and other beasts of the Dark Elf legions were more than able to offer.

"Hey, Gant," a Blood samurai called out amiably. The Samurai was named Sean and he had been in Lord Ashe's service for several years.

"Sean..." Gant rumbled back. "What goes?"

Sean shrugged and glanced around at the crowd in the village square. "We caught Willy cheating the farmers at dice again. We've got him leashed to a tree until the lord can pass judgement. Also, a couple of ronin dueled this morning. One of them is dead. The other staggered away, trying to hold his insides inside. We've been keeping an eye out, but neither of them seems to have any friends who want to continue the fight."

"Good," Gant nodded. "Have you seen Lord Ashe's kits? Lady Emma told me to track them down."

Sean jerked his head towards the far side of the market crowd.

"Over by the tavern," Sean said. "That old tale-teller is back in town and is working the crowd. The youngsters were listening to him."

"A tale-teller?" Gant asked with a frown.

"Yeah. His name is 'Konungr', or something like that. He's not a local. You've never heard him?"

Gant shook his head.

"He's pretty good," Sean continued amiably. "He might be worth a copper or two if you have the time. He's got this tale where Thor is turned into a frog. It's pretty funny."

Gant nodded and strode off towards the tavern.

The afternoon's tale was done and old man had converted some of his earnings into a small pot of stew. The tavern-keeper's daughter delivered the pot from the tavern's kitchen. She then joined May, Samantha, and Sophie near the tavern door and the girls began chatting.

Oliver and Sigmund were nowhere to be seen. The boys had a tendency to ramble about, so that really wasn't surprising.

Gant froze when he saw the old man. Then he gaped in surprise. He was too startled to properly prostrate himself.

Sensing that he was being watched, the old man looked up from his simple meal. Then his gaze met Gant's.

The old man searched through his cavernous memory until he found the Troll's name.

"Gant," the old man said thoughtfully. "Sit with me."

For a long second, Gant just stared. The idea of sitting with the old man was all but unthinkable. It just wasn't done.

The old man kept his gaze locked on Gant. Then he gestured to the ground before him in a manner that was unmistakable and brooked not even the possibility of disobedience.

Gant took a deep breath and sat down crossed-legged, his tetsubo in his lap, facing the old man.

Suddenly, the sound of the crowd around Gant and the old man became muted. It was as if everyone else was now a hundred yards away, when they were actually far closer. Nobody, not even the keen-hearing Blood present in the village square, could hear what Gant and the old man were saying.

That didn't particularly surprise Gant.

The old man stirred his food with a wooden spoon. Then he put the pot down.

"I last saw you on Alfheim," he told Gant. "There was a parley. An effort was being made to stop a war that neither side really wanted. I was present to mediate. You were in the retinue of a Dark Elf lord named Misry. During a break in the talks, your lord had you fight a Troll from the retinue of another Dark Elf lord. They said it was for our amusement, but it was actually intended to impress us with the savagery and cruelty of the Dark Elves."

Gant nodded slowly.

"You won the fight," the old man continued. "Your opponent died."

Gant said nothing. His eyes were still locked on the old man's face. He really wasn't sure what to say or do.

"What was the name of the dead Troll?" the old man asked.

Gant blinked in surprise. That was an unexpected question.

"His name was Brek," Gant replied.

"You were comrades?" the old man asked. "I thought I saw that in the two of you when you fought. There was a certain hesitation. An unwillingness to do battle. It was subtle, but it was there."

Gant let out a long sigh. "We had the same mother, but different fathers. My lord Misry bred my mother with many strong Troll warriors. He wanted to produce very powerful slaves. Brek was younger than me. My lord Misry sold him to another lord when he was ten winters old. I never saw him again until the day we were ordered to fight."

"Brek died bravely," the old man said quietly.

"He still died," Gant responded. His eyes had become distant and empty.

The old man nodded. Then he spoke again. "How is your new lord?"

"Good," Gant replied without hesitation. "He treats us well. He tells me that I am not a slave."

Then Gant paused.

"You have doubts?" the old man prompted.

Gant shrugged. "I was bred a slave, born a slave, and raised a slave. I was a slave all my life until the Blood cut the iron collar from around my neck and told me I was free. Do words really change anything?"

"Can you leave whenever you want?" the old man asked.

"Lord Ashe says so."

"Do you think he lies?"

Gant firmly shook his head. "No. But perhaps it does not matter what he says. Perhaps I do not know how to be free."

"Then learn," the old man said flatly.

Gant considered that. Then he took a deep breath and spoke again.

"I must tell Lord Ashe that you're here."

The old man smiled coldly at the Troll.

"Forget," he told Gant.

For a long moment, Gant seemed to stare off at nothing. Then he got to his feet. Looking around in puzzlement, he paused to glance at the old man. Then he nodded in a distant manner and trudged away.

From around the tavern's corner, Priestess Olivia - the third wife of the local lord - appeared. She was a tall woman with fine brown skin. Her white mohawk was a common affectation of the Storm Hammer sect of Lady Ororo, and it made her seem even taller. She was walking between Oliver and Sigmund, holding hands with them both as they described their latest adventures. Olivia's eyes brightened when she saw Gant. Gant bowed his head politely, and then shooed May, Samantha, and Sophie towards Olivia and the boys. They joined into a single group as the girls all chorused a farewell to the tavern-keeper's daughter. Then the newly-formed party began heading back towards the manor. It was time for lessons.

The old man watched the scene with a barely hidden smile. Then he finished his meal as he speculatively examined a short stack of coins on the ground before him.

There was enough for ale. This village was generous to tale-tellers.

The old man got to his feet.

At a table in the tavern, he waited patiently. It was just a matter of time until she appeared.

The old man could sense the heat of her. His presence called, so she would appear. That made the old man smile grimly. Whatever else she might be, she was a woman, so there must be words.

He was on my second ale - actually, the local brew was pretty good - when a Wilder woman dressed in caravan leathers entered the tavern. She moved with easy grace, and when young she must have been a notable beauty. Even now, in her weather-beaten late-middle years, she still warranted the second glances that most of the men in the tavern automatically gave her.

And, of course, she had red hair. Although now there was a trace of silver near her temples.

Her eyes met the old man's. Then, putting her hands flat on my table, she leaned over and kissed him.

"Pretty bird," the old man said softly once their lips finally parted, "You know full well that I'm now a married man."

The Wilder woman merely kissed him again, and the old man didn't resist. Then she sat at his table and gestured to the tavern-keeper's daughter. The girl approached and poured a cup of ale. The old man flipped a coin to the barmaid and she neatly caught it in mid-air.

"What brings you here?" the woman asked. There was impudent tone to her voice. The old man remembered it well. She had never feared anything. Not even him.

"I'm just visiting," the old man answered stonily.

"You're breaking the rules by coming here," the woman pointed out just before she drained her cup. After she put the cup down, there was white foam on her lips. Still looking directly at the old man, she licked it away with a long tongue. The memories that brought back were shockingly intense.

The woman knew exactly what she was doing. Old girl-friends could be a pain-in-the-ass like that.

The old man grunted. "I created those rules. I ignore them as I wish."

"Who are you visiting?"

She knows damn well why I'm here, the old man thought to himself. She just wants me to say it. It had always been like that between them. She enjoyed finding the deeply buried parts of him, where he was more an ordinary man than anything else.

"Family," the old man replied shortly.

The Wilder woman raised an eyebrow in a way that the old man remembered well. The old man's wife was more than enough for him, but the woman sitting opposite from him represented life and reincarnation itself. His time with her - so very, very, long ago - was something he could never forget.

"Dammit, woman," the old man growled. "I apologize to nobody for wanting to see the children of my blood."

That made the woman smile. "What do you think of them?"

The old man considered the woman's words before speaking. "I can see my sons in Oliver and Sigmund. The way they talk, stand, run, or even just look at you - it's as if I've been transported back to a time long gone. But in Oliver, I can also see that bastard Logan. It's buried deep in his eyes, but it's there; something dangerous and waiting. And as for Sigmund... well, even I don't know the details of what Loki had in mind for him, but I can see a kindness in Sigmund that Loki will always lack. I hope that stays with him."

"It's not the same with Olivia," the old man continued. "I never had a daughter, but now I find myself regretting that. Olivia is a fine woman. I just wish she was more willing to acknowledge the Asgardian side of her family. I would like to someday greet her as she enters the gates of Valhalla."

The Wilder woman got to her feet, leaned over the table, and kissed the old man once again. This time she kissed him on the patch he wore over his missing eye.

"It was good to see you again," she said. "I best leave before I do too much damage to this body. It's frailer than my usual hosts."

Then she turned and left.

Still sitting at his table, the old man sipped at his ale, and examined the gentle curve of the Phoenix's ass as she walked out of the tavern's door.

"Good to see you again, pretty bird," Odin muttered to himself.