… we can begin the tale.
Chapter One
The Pool of Wintery Sorrows
Jotunheimr. Frosty land. Outside ice on inside ice, on top of rocks. Freezing winds smothering snowy land. Perpetual night skies. From an Asgardian point of view, a dismal landscape. For Jotuns, a land rich in many natural beauties. Ice seas, snowy mountains. Magical forests. Forests of icy spikes. Forests where dangerous beasts dwell. Hence, sceneries fit for hunting wondrous creatures which heads will later adorn one's hall.
The lone shadow is not bothered by adding its name to the long list of noble hunters. The shadow has left the forest where it started its long painful climb on the slope of this particularly steep mountain. A few instants ago, the meadows were empty and now a shadow crosses them. Where does it come from is anybody's guess. Maybe the green sparkles which added colour to the night skies could whisper the name of the realm it comes from.
Jotuns will not like it. Jotuns want to know who travels and set foot on their snowy land. Jotuns will get angry at this trespass. Nobody in his or her sane mind wants to anger a Frost Giant. Maybe the shadow is not anybody?
The shadow casts a shorter shadow on the ground. The shadow is small but nothing can be made of its shape as it is bundled in layers of furs upon furs. This gives it away. A Jotun would wear his ice armour to walk through the icy winds, the freezing blizzard. The shadow wears fur. It is therefore Asgardian, Dark-elfish or Vanir for these realms are inhabited by men and gods who play at being men or is it the opposite around?
The shadow stops. The climb is steep; the shadow needs to breathe. The shadow looks at a map which has appeared after its hands have written runes in the air. And the shadow with a long sigh starts climbing again. The crack is soon to be found. Inside the crack, the wind will stop. It will still be cold, but the shadow will be able to stop gasping for frozen air. And yes, the crack is close at hand.
Just a little bit of patience… it will be safe. Safe of the nuu-ru. The creature preys on lonely hunters. Preys on Jotuns. Preys on anything but itself. It mates every ten years and every ten years horrible cubs are born to horrible parents. Imagine a combination of Midgardian polar bears with a snout of a mammoth except it is an added mouth lined by thousands of sharp teeth and a tendency to use at the same time his two front legs plus a serpentine body. Claws end its paws and a whip of his tail can slice three Frost giants in one go. The shadow, the very lonely shadow stands no chance if it was to meet one. The shadow hurries toward the crack. Nuu-rus are the stuff of nightmares. Possibly. Nuu-rus have an enviable sense of smell despite the blizzard. The shadow is well aware it will smell enticing food to any nuu-ru passing by the ice fissure.
The shadow is lucky. It has reached the crack. It quickly removes the many layers which protected it from the cold, just keeping its backpack. Now that it can stop walking against the wind, it walks with a purpose downward, deep inside the crack. It still wears a coat and the hood still keeps its anonymity. It is not a Jotun, which we know. No ice armour. Maybe it is because it does not know the spell which dresses a Jotun youth into a fierce Frost Giant warrior?
Deep, deeper down the shaft of ice. There is a blue light which comes from a pool. As anything in Jotunheimr, it is covered in ice and it has hidden beauty. The blue light is tantalizing close but whatever magic it contains is out of reach protected by a thick layer of ice. The shadow who is kneeling by the bank of the pool has tried and tried again to access it without joy. It looks at scrolls it pulled out of its back pack.
Yes it holds old scrolls and the scroll read it does not like. The Casket of Winters is just that. Just a casket. What is important, significant is the winters bit. The strange blue fuel which gives power and strength to the casket and the shadow wants that power.
So it is it then. The shadow, the lonely shadow wants power. Such courageous acts as defying the snow storm, the steep climb, the howling winds and the monsters which prowl for such a dismal vulgar wish of riches and power?
The shadow jerks upright. A noise, a faint noise. Footfalls; somebody is walking inside the giant room which rooms the blue lighted pool. The shadow hides quickly behind a large boulder and watch… the earlier seen shadow. Both are clothed about the same winter gear. One is proud, princely even, another has the careless attitude of one ruled by no king.
Both are tall, though one is taller than the other.
The smaller shadow has not seen the other shadow; it walks purposely to the bank of the pool. Like the other shadow it kneels by the bank and because it is tired by the long walk, its breathing can be heard. Soft panting, stubborn one. Tired as it may be, it will take a sample of the pool of Sorrows , the pool of Winters as the Jotuns call it in the legendary tale.
Quickly because one never knows and Nuu-rus can show up at any time, it digs inside its protective gear and pulls out a very small jar. A jar? No, rather a small bottle and its gloved hand struggles to open it… and cannot. A sigh of disgust, the shadow bites into a glove and pulls it out.
Now we know more. This shadow is no Asgardian for its hand is blue and the scarf which is circling its head as to protect it from the cold air reveals more details. Under the hood, one does not see much, but the eyes … which are red. Could this shadow be a Jotun after all?
This shadow does not care. It pours something out of the bottle on the ice which covers the pool and … wonders… the ice melt and the shadow peers above it. What does the little one look at, look for? What does this shadow want to see from the reflection given by the pool…? What we know, is that this shadow fills the now empty bottle with the blue pulsating fluid and this simple action triggers another.
Action which may be have a secret meaning… we are not to know yet... as the tallest shadow jumps on the smaller and tries to grab the now full bottle. Each fighter is cautious as the bottle is still without lid and already the ice is coming back closing the access to the magical fluid. The bottle is precious; worlds can be destroyed with one single drop of what is inside it and the bottle has no lid on… yet.
The fighters do not waste time in words. The tall one has pulled a dagger but the smaller one's knee push it away in a vicious blow. One hood is removed. So we have it. Two Jotuns; two warriors who are not sons of Asgard. And they fight. The tall one is strong, stronger. Wily, wilier. But the smaller shadow is stubborn. It is its bottle, its magic which liberated the secret fluid. It is its spell which was successful and it is justice and truth which allow him to call the bottle his own. Justice does not always win. The smaller shadow struggles in vain. The taller one has won.
Maybe not, thinks a third shadow.
Worse, the winner has stopped using its blade since a long time. The winner is toying with the small shadow like a wolf toys with its victim or like a snake when it towers above it before striking. The stronger hand is crushing the weaker fingers and its owner is wincing biting into its lips but still trying to avoid acknowledging defeat even if the word is gnawing on his courageous heart.
Too bad the little shadow has the heart of a decent warrior. Nobody must live alive the crack and tell the tale that the pool has been partly depleted of its magic. The bottle is now secured away from the weakened grasp and the dagger is back in the taller shadow's hand. The end will be quick…
Red eyes confront each other's. The dagger is raised. The small shadow looks for an exit. Finds it though it is not really one.
The tall warrior has seen it. A fiery look for fight, then resignation followed then sheer fear. Fear not directed at him but at something above him. Both shadows roll away in the same direction, far from the lash of a very long toothed snout.
The Jotuns if they are Jotuns were so busy fighting they have missed the ever so soft crawling noise typical of a very hungry nuu-ru. A hungry and now angry nuu-ru. It wants its meal now and it wants the two hunters. Warriors. Whatever. It wants feeding.
In the room, the two fighters who were at each other's throat are now brothers in arms trying to avoid the lashes and the claws. Nuu-rus are monsters and both warriors are horrified at what they behold. The creature has circled them to the pool. It will swallow its preys alive. It will…
-not… it will not do such thing yet. The smaller blue hand grasps the bigger one and pulls it; both run over the ice pool to a black hole. Above the pool but reachable, there is a small crack … if they run quick enough, they can reach its wall, climb and crawl into it and pray whatever god there is to escape the deadly snout like they have escaped its claws. They crawl inside as fast as they can; the small warrior leading the way. To a bigger room and this is it. This is it. The time has come to know if they are deep, so deep inside the crack a nuu-ru snout has to give up and not circle one's arm, head or leg and pull it back to its mouth and claws.
Both pairs of desperate red eyes are looking at the very long tentacle of a snout coming after them. It is hesitating and... It latches itself onto the nearest available prey. The bigger prey. The tall shadow's closest ankle and it pulls it. The tall shadow is a warrior, it resists; it digs its dagger in the walls but it feels the pull and its ankle is howling murder. Imagine rows and rows of toothed bracelets entering your skin and sucking the blood out for each tooth is matched by a smaller sucking hole of a mouth.
It is sheer torture and the warrior's hand is now weakening. Something is going to snap. And it is snapping. The dagger. The tentacle pulls more when it stops.
Something feels like… teeth. But how it is possible? The toothed snout is actually feeling the pain of being bitten. By very small teeth, but it hurts. And it is not the end. A dagger, a broken dagger is coming to the rescue of the small jaws. The snout is now bloodied and hurt; it pulls out without any prey to feast on and its revenge will come all too soon. But the reprieve is welcome for the two shadows inside the cave of the thin long crack.
Both hoods have been pushed away and two sets of red eyes are discovering the identity of its enemy. The taller shadow we know it to be probably a Jotun. Red eyes, blue skin, raven lanky locks and strange symbols on its forehead proclaim it to be a Jotun warrior.
The smaller shadow sports also a blue skin and a pair of red eyes. Here stops the resemblance. The hair is fiery red and curly.
As for the face, only the upper part is seen. It says it belongs to a clan which only reveals his entirety to his equal. His Vanir equals. Jotuns look like Vanirs. Jotuns show their faces. Vanirs hide it. It belongs to the Khanate to decide if they can show themselves. Male like female Vanirs are just as shy or reluctant,
We have it a tall Jotun. Tall, really? And a shorter Vanir. One has stolen a bottle to another; one has saved another's life. So far.
- Give me the dagger. Nuu-rus are venomous. Let me expel the venom!
- Biting into a snout is a healthy exercise?
The Vanir reaches for his backpack, retrieving a rather dirty looking rag.
- Put it around your ankle where it dug into your flesh. It is soaked with Ayaahee's piss. Smelly but then most medicinal drugs which save one's life are smelly
- How thoughtful of you. You try to kill me then you save my life
- 'YOU' tried to kill me; 'I' saved your pitiful life, Jotun. Had you been one of Odin's accursed brood, I would have let you be eaten alive!
The Vanir stops then starts again as an afterthought.
- … And I would have made a song of it!
- Something tells me it is coming back…
The sounds of hard claws biting inside the ice are clear. The monster, upon finding it cannot pull its preys out is digging inside their icy refuge. If the prey does not come to the nuu-ru, the nuu-ru will claw its access to his un-compliant victims. The Vanir and Jotun must find an exit. Now.
- Your scented dressing will have to wait. We need to get out.
- There is a portal. Near. Not the one I used in the forest. The runes say it is not very reliable...
- Whereas Death through a toothed snout is.
- Your wound needs attending.
- Our funeral pyre will be attended soon enough if we do not leave this frozen cage.
The smooth talking Jotun is wasting his irony on the smaller Vanir. But the free-man accepts it.
- How come Vanirs bite into Nuu-rus without side effects?
- Vanirs think ahead and prepare any journey to Jotunheimr by drinking protective potions beforehand. Vanirs think. Unlike stupid Jotuns who rely on sheer strength. Give me back the bottle
- No.
Vanirs and Jotuns can get along. So much. Soon, they will stop worrying about getting along. When it devours them, the Nuu-ru will get them rid of the problem.
The smaller warrior pulls again the map.
- The portal is near. But I do not have enough magic for two.
- Allow me to contribute.
Jotun magic is certainly crude compared to Odin's magic; it is crude for sure when it stands shoulder to shoulder to Vanir art. That is what Vanirs think. The Vanir raised an eyebrow at this particular Jotun's type of magic. But it works. Both warriors extend their fingers and slowly the ice gives way and reveals rock with more cracks and they rush in it. They would rush if the Jotun did not stagger. The venom is acting fast. The Jotun's notoriously cold skin is now colder. If he was a Vanir, he would be boiling and if ice could sweat… well ice does sweat as beads of it are rolling on his forehead. But the tall man is a Jotun. His race is stubborn. His leg is begging to stop running and he still runs. Away from the creature which wants to rejoice on his flesh.
In the distance, they can now see the night skies; they are almost out of the mountain. The beast is close though. They are out and the Jotun stumbles. He can't help but see the situation has not improved. They were trapped inside a crack and now, they are trapped on a small balcony of ice and rocks above the mother of all cliffs. And the Vanir is now insane…
Insane. Who would be humming a song about dwarves and necklaces? But a stupid, stupid Vanir. Said Vanir pulls out a small piece of wood from his backpack. The Jotun's red eyes could kill if they would because this Vanir is insane and demented. Behind the scarf circling the lower half of his face, the Vanir is clearly broadly smiling.
- Do you want to snowboard with me?
- Do I have a choice?
Both men, much too close for their masculinity holding each other waist, after stepping on the small wooden board have jumped from the balcony overlooking the very steep cliff. Just in time as the nuu-ru had finally reached said balcony. Its jaws bite into the air, while much downward a small Vanir warrior wizard pronounces the runes to open a portal which may be or not broken. Death this way is better than inside a nuu-ru's stomach.
- Vanaheimr, this child is calling you home!
The snow, the ice, the rocks are disappearing. It is space and the two men see the stars and the galaxies changing shape. It may not be as elegant as the Bifrost but it works fine.
The Vanir is almost home as for the Jotun… well the Jotun will be shown another portal to go home. Once he has given back the bottle. The Jotun feels sick and disgusted to be so close to another man. Even if this warrior is a Vanir and does not qualify as a man by Jotunheimr's standards. By any standards!
And all gets black.