The sky brightens across an endless horizon, but not in the way of the coming day. In a way, this sky has never even dreamt of darkness. Across the everbright sky, branches endlessly grow–unfixed in their fabrication and constantly shifting–while the pollen-dusted meliae tend to them. Spring’s arrival nears, and tensions tighten. The meliae gossip endlessly behind dewy buds and stumpy cuttings. Their whispering is buzzing–stirs clouds of yellow powder into the already noxious air. This, however, is drowned by indiscriminate cries and curses from below, cloaked underneath a cloud of thick pollen from the singing blooms.

  High on a sturdy branch, undisturbed by the meliae, a pearly squirrel, nested in a bundle of ash keys, stirs awake at the same thunder from below. In a chain of fervent movements–the one known as Toskein–scurries down a plight of creeping and tangled branches like ancient calcified tentacles creeping across an endless expanse. Sharp branches poke at his coat, and steal a few strands. Pollen coats his paws. He does not seem to mind, there is whispering nearby.

  “My. What a way to welcome Spring.” Atelier satirises while collecting new buds.

  “Have you not heard? There are visitors..ah, perhaps, prisoners might better suit them.” Faceri answers back jokingly.

  “I have wondered why security..” Atelier starts.

  “Shh..” Interrupting her with discipline, Faceri lectures her. “Have awareness. That rat..might be near. No doubt the noise awoke others.” She walks down from her branch while peering over knots and shelves.

  “Well, what is the use? He gets past all of our traps, and magicks somehow.” Atelier shrugs.

  “She has a special..What is this? White fur?” Faceri nearly jumps onto a clutch of white squirrel’s fur. Atelier gasps.

  “That rat!” The two meliae teeth through crevices behind thick branches, and lift vines away from pre-dug setts.

  Toskr is long gone–down the arms of the giant, archaic tree–to the heart of the matter.

  The center of the heat.

  The Great Hall was certainly the edifice of Asward, pearly white with the matching brilliance of the acmic light filtered through Muspel’s misty heat. Opposing it, the Throneroom is singular in design. The perpetual light, which reigns over all, casts an eerie reflection over the stilted surface of the Throneroom. Almost invisible; unseen in all the realms, but here in Asward. On the same token, it is a secure stronghold–glittering under an aura of Vanirian magic and reinforced with the work of dwarves–resilient and expertly-crafted, however, Toskein knows his way around.

  Strategically and gingerly, like harvesting a delicious–yet precious–fruit. The squirrel presses on avoiding traps and spikes. Even to awakening ancient–and hungry–gargoyles, Toskr knew which cavities were soft and giving to his pillages. Many of the secret channels were actually seed storages, which like their owner had grown plump in their supply. He avoided them, the runic traps, dead-ends, and the towering balconies guarded by dusty gargoyles.

  Finally, he arrives at the roof of the Throneroom. In the heat of their arguing–the squirrel peers in through one of the seemingly infinite panels of the roof. At a certain angle, the nosy squirrel could see the entire hall. He balances precariously over the smooth stilts, and from above looks like a flying sugar glider.

  At the front of the room with one burly hand on the grand throne, a large blonde, yet balding fellow speaks down to his court with a pointed finger and grand gestures of frustration. He barks, and glittering spit escapes their fleshy raunch. They fall, glitter, and land on the cheek of one equally frustrated kneeling fellow, who wipes his cheek. Then, the back of his hand to his plumy chest.

  A very large and burned dame, even larger than the blonde man, steps up to the kneeling man’s defense. His long chestnut hair hides a scheming beam across his teeth. Like a tree, he stands up from his previous humility with arms branching out to touch the sun. The man saunters up the steps of the throne. His confident steps hollowly echo through the entirety of the hall.

  “My honorable and just king. I know personally of your generosity. Many times, I’ve been forced to lean on it. I know of your character, Brother. Out of anyone, I know the graciousness of your reign, but also your wisdom. And you know me. Know this, Brother. To you, I am the most loyal. I swear to you–on this half-wretched soul of mine– this is no act of treachery.” A sultry voice dribbles like thick milk while the rest of the court whisper under their breaths. The king listens with a twisted face growing red.

  “You lie, and you are no brother of mine. Three times, you have lied. You know nothing of my wisdom. You take me for a fool. Arrogant swindler, I know you. Never, have you shown me a single shred of loyalty. This is treason.” A thunderous voice dominates all four corners and walls, then it radiates outwards.

  Toskein steadies himself from above as the panels seem to resonate Oten’s voice tenfold.

  The ether, littered with fallen elderlogs and other debris, ripples endlessly across the trunk of the eldest tree. The reflection of the mortal realm flickers unsteadily, and then a blanket of white straightens across to the end.

  However, on a far branch, Toskr notices a hidden bundle of crimson.

  “You lied about the one I cast into the Spatial Sea. And also about your savage beast I chained to one of the mountains which rise from it. Now, I come to find you lying about another–a child hiding in the mortal realm.” With a forceful gesture of his hand, a throneknight marches towards the exit of the Throne Room. The giant woman calmly steps in front of the archway in only three steps, and blocks the way of the throneknight.

  “King, I understand you are upset I have hidden the-” Angrboda speaks with confidence before interruption.

  “-It has gotten past that point, Angrboda. You have refused to relinquish your secrets of the fate of the nine realms, and now you have mothered and hidden beasts I worry will bring about the very destruction of all I oversee.” Oten interrupts her from his throne, levels above her towering figure.

  “Brother, there are others who conspire against us. Much larger threats who are hidden even from your omniscience. These influences–I believe– should be kept from the child.” Lofi mentions from the bottom of the steps.

  “Your wish is mine, Lofi. All those who are living will be kept from the child. It’s only sin should be that it is your child.” Oten looks down with open condescension.

  “You must stop him, Lofi.” Angrboda urges from across the numerous whispering heads of Oten’s court.

  “And you will be caged in Muspelheim for all of eternity.” Oten points to Angrboda, and declares to the entire hall.

  “The wrath of what remains of my people–” Angrboda seethes from her aggressive stance.

  “-Key words, darling. What remains of your people are barred from leaving their swampy hills.” A slimy voice interjects from the crowd.

  “You are not a part of this conversation, hrotti.” Angrboda spits back.

  “I am in the room. Am I not?” His eyes look over to the now empty space of the archway. He gestures to the knight covertly, but the giantess catches his scheme. She attempts to turn around, and falls to her knees instead. She cries out in pain.

  “Where is your duty, knight?” The suspicious man yells at the trembling throneknight, and the latter, shaken from his fright, runs out the room.

  Angrboda looks down to streaks of crimson and the feeling of hot pain.

  The now bolstered man smiles down from above her crumpled form while sheathing a dagger.

  “This is what we will do to that child of treachery of yours.” She scalds at the sight of purple wispy smoke.

  “Shifter..” The word crackles in her mouth.

  “Angrboda!” Lofi shouts as he attempts his way over, but he’s stopped with the same burly dominating hand which held the throne.

  “I have had enough of your antics. If not you two, then who- who is it– Lofi, who will bring about Ragnarokr.” Oten shook him violently, almost desperately.

  Lofi took the assault with a blank look of helplessness. Oten released him and let out a heavy sigh as all the hall erupts in chaotic discourse.

  “Traitor!”

  “The old order must be respected!”

  “What order?”

  “Here’s your order!”

  “Skoggr!”

  “Your mother!”

  “See what chaos unfolds when you visit? Haha!” Oten let out a sarcastic laugh which shook his whole body with a timbering and ritualistic flair, signaling, he laughed this way often.

  He turns out to the outfacing wall of the Throneroom, and gazes into the uninterrupted sky. One beam of light covers half his face, while others cut through the air between the men.

  “King, I understand what risks we pose–I pose–I-” Lofi shakily attempts to argue for his position, but then the beams of light disappear.

  “-Sh-sht.” The mighty King found himself distracted now by a shadow on the ceiling of his throne hall.

  “Wha- I beg your pardon? Did you just ‘sh’ me, my honorable King?” Lofi asks in disbelief.

  “Lofi, for gods, for anyone, could you for once be quiet, and pay attention?” The older man uncharacteristically–then again, perhaps, it was characteristic for him to– escapes the current serious situation with an otherwise less stressful one.

  At the far right corner of the Throneroom, a very plump and healthy shadow shows through the iridescence of the ceiling. Distracted from the rest of the struggle, Oten and Lofi watch with mouths agape at the wobbling figure instead.

  Behind them, the commotion reaches a deafening ferocity which even cloaks Angrboda in its midst. She, herself, could not move much, but only away from the clamoring distracted by themselves. Growing in ferocity, volume arising, swords and daggers rise into the air.

  “What are they–” Angrboda attempts to look over the writhing mass, leaning her body side to side, and flinching at the pressure on her wounds. A large warhammer blocks out most of her view, bobbing up and down over waves of fury.

  Then suddenly, there was a split in the sea. Angrboda held her left arm at her right side in preparation.

  “Angrboda, please, we must be quick.” A cloaked figure emerges from the dense crowd.

  “Wh-who are you?” She flinches in pain as the robed figure attempts to move her.

  “I freed the child, and I am willing to let you leave with me, but we cannot waste any time. As soon as I heal you, leave Lofi, leave the child to my constituents. Leave instead with me.” They speak in a whispering voice with an urgent quickness.

  “Hold on. I cannot think. This is all happening too fast.” Angrboda blinks quickly.

  “Think faster. Keep the safety of your children in mind. The safeguard of their future.” They bring her head down to talk more aggressively.

  “I understand. I do, but leave Lofi? And my child?” Angrboda asks in disbelief. She looks into their eyes, as if looking for an answer, before a dagger flies towards their direction. Both dodge, but the dagger nestles its sharp edge into the ground just beside Angrboda’s knees.

  “Did you think you could hide?” Angrboda recognizes the voice and the dagger.

  “How did he find me?” On guard, she prepares to make do with her injuries.

  “Angrboda, please.” Green shimmers fall from her savior’s hands and fall onto her knees. Her tendons and muscles heal, and finally her skin. Only scars, and a green bruise remain.

  “Th-there’s something left. I cannot remove-”

  “-It’s fine. I can move fine. If he knew where I was, he would already be here.” She stands, but steadies herself from residual soreness.

  “He is no matter to us. Leave with me, please.” They hold her hand with a firmness, but Angrboda could not find any viciousness. Angrboda pauses slightly, ruminating on her options. She comes to a short conclusion, and looks forward while unsheathing her own dagger.

  “I cannot.” She speaks with a quiet, yet stabling tremor.

  “How can I convince someone so stubborn without revealing myself? Here. Take this. When you hear the blow of a horn–break it, look into the smoke, and think of me.” The robed figure roughly rips Angrboda’s arm toward them, and drops a seed-like jewel in her hand. Afterwards, they pull back their hood so only Angrboda can see their face.

  “..Okay..” She replies with a stunned look, but quickly rectifies to the upcoming threat.

  “Do not falter, Angrboda.” The hooded figure leaves through the archway, disguising themselves under the commotion without anyone ever knowing of their presence.

  Unwittingly the topic of the hour, Toskein tries with all of his strength to reach the branch which held his newest precious treasure. The precisely engineered panels are slippery and offer not a single shelf of salvation to the poor squirrel, but with everything he still tries.

  One touch, and then a fast snatch. Toskein can only reach as far as a single leaf of the same branch. Underneath him, the Hall shakes violently, and the branches also shiver slightly. The squirrel pays no mind, and only pines for the rare Rowan berries.

  “Ah-ah!” Miraculously, the branch which seemed rots away lowers slightly in his direction.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “What is this? Fruit? Is it edible?” A youthful girl splotched in cold blue skin picks the bundle of Rowan berries from the branch. Her muddy and shabby clothes blended with the wood, but aside from that, a child unsupervised in Asgard was not natural.

  The girl casually lays back onto the branch while cradling the bundle of Rowan berries. In his stupor, Toskein cranes his stumpy neck to and fro.

  “Where in the realms did you come from? Who are you?” The pearly squirrel leers with suspicious eyes while racking his brain for the answer.

  “Hm?” She snaps a berry in between her teeth.

  “And I know everyone in the realm..I also know those will make you sick, lass. You need to cook them.” Toskr’s reply causes her to spit out the fruit– right out onto his face– inciting, well, squirrely behavior.

  “Well, I-” After his tantrum, he rubs his face in a hurry with shaky paws, then loses his balance. Due to the angle of the planks and slant of the structure, he falls off the roof with only a single dirty paw holding onto the ledge.

  Directly underneath, Toskr’s shadow resembles a black sail catching a torrential storm. Oten and Lofi stand in front of the swarming sea of the court while watching the squirrel’s struggle.

  “What do you think that is?” Lofi asks Oten in wonderment.

  “Enough, Lofi. It is always you with the distractions.” Oten turns around to walk from the scene.

  “Wha-I, my King-” Lofi was beside himself.

  The men are interrupted by a flying dagger, which they easily dodge. Instead of their heads, the dagger punctures the solid panel behind them causing it to crumble to the ground. The surrounding panels are also damaged, giving a small view of Toskr’s struggling fuzzy body.

  “Pfff-Haha!” The half-blue girl leans back in tear-jerking laughter.

  “Oh, my, quick–please– lass!” Toskein sways from every which way trying to take grip with his other paw.

  “Haha! No! Not you!” She sputters. “Here.” She holds out a hand shaking from laughter.

  “Thoughtless child..unbeknownst of what is happening here..” The squirrel sneers before reaching up for her hand. While the girl gathers her strength, the panels underneath creak under pressure.

  “What do you have on you?” The half-blue girl steadies her feet in between the gaps off the planks and attempts to pull up Ratatoskr.

  However, to no avail, the squirrel’s body is caught on a dilapidated panel. Ratatoskr, now relieved of his weight, takes her time to look into the hall.

  Scoping the crowd, Oten and Lofi try to find the one responsible for the flying dagger, but are caught by surprise once again. From below, a small cloaked figure heaves a hammer up to the chin of Oten, knocking him backwards a few paces. Under his stupor, the figure spins around him, and throws the hammer at Lofi. The strength of the spin and the weight of the hammer sends Loki out of the opening caused by the prior event. The surprise is short lived, however, as Oten throws the figure backwards by their cloak, ripping it in the struggle. As a consequence, the small figure slams and flips against the ground into the crowd.

  The assailant, revealed to be a young girl of blue skin, stands up confidently without her cloak.

  “You are..” Oten struggles to find the answer.

  Now split down the middle, the court hushes. Angrboda peeks her head over the crowd.

  “Wait, that is..” Toskein looks from the girl in the hall to the girl struggling to pull him up. Up and down; back and forth.

  Whispers of the court grow in volume. A light breeze comes in through the crack of white, and the vibrant blue sky reveals itself from behind.

  “Oh, my darling! You are safe!” Angrboda shouts to the girl from over her own assailant’s crumpled figure.

  “Do not turn this into a needless slaughter, child. You understand the sins of your parents, do you not?” Oten wipes blood from his lip with his thumb.

  “I won’t go! Not on your terms, or anyone else’s! And I’m taking my mother with me!” The blue girl shouts while Angrboda runs to her side. Angrboda pulls her daughter in closer.

  “Here, the one who freed you gave me this. It will take us to safety. I must break it on the ground.” Angrboda held the girl by her side while holding the seed down, so only the two of them could see it clearly.

  “What are you doing? Your king is addressing you.” A loyalist from the crowd incites more questioning.

  “What are you saying? There was no one who freed me.” The girl asks, and plainly states. Afterwards, she scours the crowd.

  “She-devil!” One of them spits at the girl.

  “What?” Angrboda asks after breaking the seed on the ground–black smoke pluming from its pit.

  “Angrboda, you will be sent to Muspelheim.” Oten gestures, and throneknights crowd the hall with magical weapons and clunky armor.

  “As for you..” He leers down at the blue child before swiping his bloody thumb across the top of his throne.

  At once, the trunk of the tree reflects a white image. However, it is different from the omniscient sky which was like a wrinkle-less blanket. Instead, the reflection shows a bleak white which swirls a storm outwards. Strong winds begin to beat against the branches reaching down and the Great Hall. From the outside, the half-blue girl finally pulls Toskr up with the help of a gust.

  “What is that?” She asks with a blank gaze into the eye of the storm.

  “What? That is–um, well, assuming from their arguing–that is Nilfheim. The realm of the lost, the forgotten–whooh– and the cold.” Toskein brushes off his pearly warm coat.

  Aside from the whistling of the wind, there was another hissing in the air. Black smoke smothers the entire court. Then, the smell of meat seasoned with pollen wafts through the winds.

  “What is that smell? AH!”

  A flagrant POP and a residual sizzling interrupted the hall. Angrboda’s large body, which protected her from the blast, is sent back onto the crowd forcefully concentrated to the far left corner of the hall. Odin, behind his wall of throneknights, holds fast to his throne. In the center of the heat, the blue girl’s figure leaves behind only a smudge on the ground.

  As the smoke dissipates and Angrboda’s clamors closer, her cries shake the remaining walls of the Great Hall and spill over the edge of the Throneroom. Finally, the court evacuates through the archway and down the halls with the help of a reinforcement of knights.

  “The Meliae..Loki..the tower..Bifrost…” Oten whispers orders to a high-ranking throneknight. In kind, he dutifully bows to his King, and kisses his magical throne. A halo of shimmering aura appears, then presently disappears, afterwards blessing him with protection and physical buffs. A group of 46 throneknights step up, bow to their king, and also kiss the throne in a timely manner. Finally, the leading throneknight bows to his King for the last time before walking away with his small platoon to fulfill his duty.

  Angrboda from the pit of the explosion watches the throneknights leaving before turning her attention to the king, surrounded by fewer knights.

  “Oten! I swear to you..” She prepares herself, but suddenly pauses with a blank expression.

  There were tears, red, and hate in her eyes. And in the very back, deep from her medulla, a spark catches the reflection of light again.

  “Help!” A small voice pitches just loud enough for Angrboda to hear.

  She turns around to the gaping injury of the Throneroom. A starkly grey sky peppered with white, and just barely like a sneeze of spit, a blue hand grips the very edge of the dilapidated floor. After wiping her tears, she holds onto the small hand with both of her own and pulls upward. However, with much confusion, even the Angrboda could not pull up a measly child.

  Holding on desperately with all his life was Toskr, on the leg of the half-blue girl, but his grip was slipping. He looks down with a worried expression. The torrents swirl beneath them, practically obscuring the view of Niflheim below. Weaker branches near the center of the storm squeak, but remain due to four Meliae guarding them. One of them, from a passing encounter, makes eye contact with Toskein.

  The half-blue girl, sensing her anchor’s distress, also looks down at her place of exile.

  “Hang on, rat! We might survive this.” She reassures him.

  “The knights are coming to capture us.” Angrboda warns before heaving, with all of her strength, the two onto the residual ledge.

  Just before the knight’s sword swipes at her, Angrboda tackles three throneknights to the ground. She stomps on two of them, before the last gains possession of one of her legs. Taking advantage of the opportunity, another knight fiercely holds onto the giantess’s body. Angrboda attempts to peel the knights off of her with her dominating strength, then she feels pressure coming from below.

  One of the knights struggles in her grasp and manages one measly arm up to her face. Angrboda notices blood dripping from her palm, but before she can dodge, the knight slaps her bloody hand across the giantess's face.

  “Crumble under the weight of his power.” The throneknight smiles weakly up at her, before her pupils dilate and roll to the back of her head.

  “Shut your mouth.” Angrboda rips her hand off her face, attempts to slam it down onto her. Attempts, she does, but with only a perplexed expression and limp arms does she stand.

  The dust and dirt of the disturbed air suddenly keels still. Angrboda’s eyes focus on the shaking particles before her face with a perplexed expression, then her irises fall backwards. Oten, behind his wall of men, directs with a bleeding hand and stern expression while Angrboda silently steps off the knights’ bodies. The giantess turns around, and slowly walks to the blue girl and her companion.

  Toskein, carrying less brunt of the force, notices Angrboda first and Oten second, obscured behind a throneknight. Finally, he notices the young girl just a few rot away, settling from the force of the impact.

  “Lass. The giantess fell under the King’s priority.” Toskein shook the girl who was blinking in and out of consciousness.

  “Huh? ..Priority?” She steadies herself with the help of Ratatoskr.

  “It is his power, quite literally. Your mother cannot do a thing unless someone of greater priority frees her. I have never heard of such priority. Now, up you go. We must escape..” He explains in a rushed and hushed voice. Then, he looks up at the previous gape they fell from.

  “There is no way to climb back out of here. I owe you my life, lass, I do, but even I cannot think of a way to escape this trap.” He confesses.

  Now, with only a slack of eight rot, Angrboda marches closer. As she passes over smudges of the explosion, dust is swept into the air.

  “Trap..” The half-blue girl murmurs to herself while rubbing her eyes.

  “What is it, lass? Do you know a way out?” His ears flinch, and his head shoots down at the girl.

  “I do. Follow me, rat.” She takes one look at Angrboda before breaking into a sprint out of the Throneroom.

  “Are you sure you know of the way?” The squirrel inquires while catching up.

  “I suppose that seed was meant to kill Mother..” She ruminates as the two pass under the archway.

  “Seed? What seed?” Toskein stops her with a paw on the shoulder.

  “The one that caused the explosion.” She turns to answer him, but something past him catches her attention.

  Angrboda, noticing the absence of the two, turns to the archway. Quietly and almost instantly, she lowers her body into a kneeling bow before sending her entire ginormous body forward in one great motion.

  Almost as quickly, but with youthful inexperience, the half-blue girl answers by sliding in front of Toskein. She closes her eyes, and pulls down the collar of her blouse. Blossoming from her neck, a blue bruise spreads. The blue skin prickles, and writhes before bubbling out. Steam billows out into the otherwise still air. Faintly, a gentle breeze arrives under the archway.

  Angrboda appears before her daughter. However, something else also faces her. Upon her arrival, a blue fleshy mass extends two bubbly limbs to catch her mother. The force of the impact sends the half-blue girl flying back onto Toskr, donning a stupefied expression.

  “My gods, you are a shifter.” The squirrel conjures up at the half-blue girl who was already standing.

  “This way. It won’t hold her off for very long.” Now, she pulls the squirrel up before leading him down the hall. The latter, still wobbling, while looking back at the misshapen double of the girl in front of him.

  After the two leave, the clone attempts to stabilize its form, messily mimicking Angrboda’s.

  “This bridge will take us to the West Pavilion. We can escape to Mudgard down the Bifrost bridge.” The half-blue explains while exchanging looks to Toskr and to the bend in front of her.

  “Pfft–Mudgard..” He giggles.

  She smiled to herself while turning the corner. Breaching the darkness of the corridors, was the light coming in from a covered bridge leading from the Great Hall to the West Pavillion. However, the pair stop in front of the archway covered by overgrown branches.

  “These were not here before.” Confusion coats her voice. Immediately after, giggles fill the air, and quickly dissipate only to leave behind the lingering smell of cooked meat.

  “We must remove them either way.” Toskein turns around to watch his back before peeling back the thin branches which easily break away.

  “What is going on?” However, the lush branches soon replace the broken ones. A melody ringing in a feminine toll vibrates in the tense air.

  “The Meliae…” Ratatoskr looks around above them.

  “The who? Ow!” The girl also turns her head to and fro. Distracted, she notices a second too late after Toskr plucks a hair straight from her head.

  “Be quiet. We must offer something to them: to ask a favor.” He plucks his own hair before laying them in a groove in the ground before them. The winds calm before them, and the smell of cooked meat matures into a wild and gamey fragrance. Light catches on still pollen, gently floating in the air, conjuring an image of a beautiful woman. The image solidifies, and becomes flesh.

  Clean bare feet touch the rugged, dirty ground.

  “Rat…and the half-wretched child.” Their melodic voice just above a whisper.

  “Meliad, please let us through.” Toskein bows, and pushes the half-blue girl’s head down into a bow.

  “The King has ordered us not to let anyone through. Not only that, you still owe a debt to us, Toskein.” The meliad warns with a slight playful tilt.

  “Yes, please take our offerings.” The squirrel beckons to the hairs on the ground between them.

  “This…Do you take me for a fool?” The meliad squints with condescension, so that it could be felt even in her voice.

  “No, ma’am–ah–sir–ah um, your divinity…” Toskein panics.

  “Those Rowan berries..in your pouch.” She rolls her eyes, before offering a solution.

  “My–uh..ah, oh, yes! Those berries.” Toskr gives in.

  “Give me a bunch–” She begins while stroking the half-blue girl’s head.

  “ –A bunch?!” Toskein interjects.

  “Um..Toskr? Do you hear that?” His companion urges.

  Heavy stomps shake the walls of the hall. In response, the three pause, and turn to the direction of the pressure.

  “Oh, alright! Please take our humble offering, my divinity!” Finally, the squirrel reaches into his furry pouch, and plucks a bunch from the bundle.

  “We cannot stop the giantess from capturing you.” The meliad twirls her hair through her fingers in an aloof manner.

  “That is fine! Please.” Toskr clutches both paws together in a pleading manner.

  “We understand this. Just please let us through.” His companion also clutches her hands together in a praying motion.

  “Very well.” The meliad looks to and fro from each of their faces, and agrees.

  “Thank you.” The branches blocking their path peel away from the archway, and coil around the meliad. Her green hair weaves seamlessly into the braided vines, and her figure is slowly carried away.

  About midway, the bridge shook with a great force which caused the two to fall to the floor. Both turn back to the corridor which barely held the figure of Angrboda.

  “Quickly. At the end, there should be some sort of mechanism to seal off the bridge.” Toskr urges.

  Below the bridge were arches which came off from each of the buildings at its sides to support it. They rattle as the possessed Angrboda stomps across the platform. Likewise, two metal hinges adorning a split in the middle of the bridge bump and rattle as the pair get up from their positions to make for the end.

  “There’s a language I cannot understand..and a hole.”

  “Hold on. I have exactly what we need.” Inside a pouch of fur, he pulls out the bundle of Rowan berries. He plucks one berry, and breaks the fruit.

  The crimson skin splits open to an orange bosom, and nectar sprays into the air. With shaky movements, Toskr plugs the hole of the rune with the broken Rowan berry. A high pitched note strings as the juice sprays across runic engravings inscribed around the filled pit.

  “Hurry!” She shrieks to the squirrel as she hears quickening breaths grow louder.

  chirp chirp.. The squirrel squeaks back to the girl.

  “What?” The ancient bridge creaks eerily in the stagnant air.

  A sharp intake of air cut across a gray room rhythmically flashing red. A panting woman, beaded in sweat, sinks back into billowed covers as they mold a soft shell around her shivering body. Slowly, her frantic breathing dampens to the pace of the quiet beeping of her morning alarm.