#and then What If Loki squashes him like a bug. the end | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rose7420 · 3 years

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Prisoners Together

A request from the lovely @lokiismyhubby, I apologize for the wait and hope you like it! I also am sorry for the briefness of this story.

....I know you have a bunch a bunch of submissions, but I just have to tell you about this concept :D ...Loki somehow grew in size after the NYC attack, so now he's a giant. Nick Fury was able to put him in this huge cell that's big enough for him. Nick tries to send in Shield agents to try and talk with Loki (to calm him down and reason with him), but he isn't having any of it, and he always ends up being physically aggressive with whoever steps foot into the cell. Nick decides to send in a teen girl to see if Loki would react differently to a smaller human. She knows about Loki and how he acts towards anyone that attempts to talk to him, so she starts crying and lashing out as Shield agents force her into Loki's massive cell. Loki watches as they throw another mortal into his cell, and at first he's annoyed that they keep sending people in, but he quickly notices that it's a child who was harshly thrown to the floor. He goes to pick the teen up but she starts crying really bad, which causes Loki to feel guilty that a child is afraid of him. He picks her up anyway and brings her close to his face in front of his eyes to get a good look at her. They start talking and Loki promises that he'll protect her from Nick. Shield agents come back to take her out of the cell because she did her job in getting Loki to calm down, Loki immediately presses her against his chest and refuses to let her go and says he wants to keep her here with him. in the cell :D idk what else could happen after this haha, but this idea just popped into my mind last night!!

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Loki hated mortals and their pettiness. How they kept him in a cage meant for animals. He was rather surprised though when he entered Earth and found himself standing at a hundred feet tall, mortals scrambling from his boot like ants. A wicked grin marked his face as he enjoyed their terror. It was almost therapeutic seeing their fear. Now he sits in a cell pondering his actions, asking himself if he was truly a monster as his father had said. If he is not a monster then what else can he be? Certainly not a hero.

Agents come in and out, questioning him. Their puny forms that could easily be squashed under his thumb approach him with menace in their gaze, while they promise him of a better future. He sees right through their lies. After all, he is the God of Mischief. He snarls and threatens to flick them into the glass panels of his prison, knowing that the flick would be that of a full blow in the face for them.

Then they send her in. A tiny Midguardian, even shorter than the previous mortals. Thrown with such force onto the floor he imagines bruises will appear by morning. She whimpers, cowering away from him into the clear glass. He comes closer ignoring her screams of protest attempting to see her clearly. His curiosity gets the best of him and he plucks her up by the waist, bringing her closer and closer to his eyes. Her screams become sobs and she hits his fingers desperately with weak shoves. Her face is round and young, and her height barely that of his thumb. She must be no older than a teenager. His heart drops with a pang of sorrow.

How could these bugs throw such an innocent girl into the cell with a monster like him?

He gently shushes her pitiful sobs and rubs his finger over her back soothingly. She looks up at him with red, swollen eyes. He wipes her cheeks with the pad of his forefinger.

“Y-you’re not gonna hurt me?” The girl says, though her voice is timid.

Loki does his best attempt for a reassuring smile, “No my dear, why you’re so young and I imagine you never asked to be put in this situation. Did you?” He asks.

“N-no, sir.” She shakes her head.

“Please, call me Loki little one. And what may I call you?” He finds this tiny mortal adorable in her nervousness.

“Y/N”

She winces when she rolls her shoulder out and Loki sees the grimace.

“Are you hurt little one?” He asks, bringing her right in front of his eyes. If she so dared, her fingertips could reach out and touch his eyelashes.

“My arm, it's sore and so is my ankle.” She says looking at the swollen joints.

Red hot anger flares through Loki at the unkindness these mortals showed the poor girl.

“Let me look at it, dear.”

He pinches her shoulder delicately and takes her ankle rolling it to see the amount of damage done. She screams with pain as he turns it a little too far.

“My apologies little one. Let me bandage it for you.”

He gently takes her ankle bandaging it with care.

Suddenly the doors of his cell burst open and swarm his person. “Give us the girl back.”

He refuses, holding her closer to his chest. Protective fingers forming a cave that surrounds her in darkness.

“Get out of my sight you pathetic creatures. Leaving a child to die, what honor do you hold?” Loki is blazing with fury but he composes himself for Y/N’s sake. He threatens them with bodily harm before they finally leave.

“I’ll always protect you little one,” Loki says holding her closer to his chest. She snuggles and grasps onto his shirt burying herself in the leather.

#Giant/tiny #giant loki #loki #giant #tiny #marvel

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ninjakitty15 · 3 years

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Hair Today, Gone Tonight (Loki Oneshot)

It was not uncommon for Loki to take his time in his bathroom preparing himself for the day, he was a prince of Asgard after all and had to keep up appearance in every aspect. It was also not uncommon for him to stare long and hard at himself in the mirror to make sure every detail was perfect about himself, especially when he was always beside his perfect older brother the crown prince who could do nor look no wrong and constantly demanded all eyes to be on him. It was then slightly more uncommon for Loki to linger at his reflection as only once in a grand while would he actually find an imperfection or flaw that needed his utmost attention and time to fix or magic away. So in theory it was normal for Loki to take an awfully long time glaring at his reflection once more before he greeted the rest of the royal court of Asgard. Today was however an exception to all these things as it was a very rare occurrence for him to be cursing the Norns and growling in frustration during his daily preparations. The reason for this of course was because what was staring back at him in the mirror between his keen nose and his snarling, thin upper lip wasn’t just an imperfection but an impossibility.

Loki had come to accept early on in his long life that he would never sport such an eyesore of a facial feature as was seen mocking his otherwise perfect appearance. It wasn’t even a dashing looking mark like Fandral had, that suave blond bastard. He had long since come to take pride in his smooth, hairless appearance though as Volstagg and Thor were proof that with great hair comes great irresponsibility. Whenever there was a great feast within the palace walls, and there was always a feast for some reason or another, between the two of those bilgesnipes there would be a massacre that started at the dining table and end on their face. And Frigga wondered why Loki wasn’t gorging himself during the feasts like everyone else was. It wasn’t that hard to figure out when you’re stuck sitting between the beast with two beards, you either grow a stronger stomach or lose your appetite quite quick.

It also wasn’t hard to figure out that because it was impossible for Loki to grow face fuzz that not only was the one he had now not natural, but it wasn’t his doing at all and thus someone had to answer for that crime. No amount of scrubbing, potions, illusions, shapeshifting, or even old fashioned makeup could get rid of it either which further irked him but also narrowed down his list of suspects to one person. just the one, that had both access to his personal chambers within the palace walls but more importantly was foolish enough to prank the trickster god while he was taking a much needed nap after sparring against his brute of an older brother. Just one royal resident in fact besides Loki himself had inherited Frigga’s gift for magic as was clearly the source of this monstrosity of a moustache as if the mere sight of it didn’t irritate him enough. That fool was toast.

Loki threw open his bedchamber doors with vengeance in his eyes, already knowing his prey wouldn’t be too far, wanting to see his reaction to what transpired before running off. Right on cue as the door banged open, Loki could hear not too distant wicked giggling and the quickened pace of hasty foosteps fleeing from him. The telltale signs of a brat about to be caught that was too troublesome and young to master a decent gambling face, especially when they’re enjoying their troublemaking entirely too much. Loki easily started gaining on the little gremlin before their rounded a corner and disappeared into the nearest room with a squeal of, “save meeee!” Loki wasted no time blasting open the doors the brat was hiding behind with a wave of his hand which was still glowing green with his own magic to see Thor standing between him and his prey unsurprisingly, arms crossed and attempting to look imposing to someone that grew up with his own shenanigans.

“Step aside, brother, I have a pesky little bug to squash,” growled Loki, his gaze fixed on the twerp hiding behind Thor.

“I know you don’t mean my son but as I don’t see any other living thing here besides us, I think you must be mistaken on there being anything here to squish,” Thor challenged back.

Loki rolled his eyes at Thor’s attempt at diplomacy. “The only mistake here besides your attempt to stop me is your son’s current choice in free time activities and that is why I’m here to see that he fixes it before I fix him.”

“What are you prattling on about?” demanded Thor defensively.

Loki had also long since mastered the art of deception and redirecting people’s attention from an issue thanks entirely to his brother’s baffoonery as younger adults so he had been keeping his face turned away from his brother’s gaze to keep an eye on his prey. Till now when he actually met Thor’s eyes whose widened in surprise and mirth.

“Can’t you just wash that off?” Thor suggested, trying hard to suppress his laughter.

“That’s brilliant, Thor, I wish I thought of that first! Oh what a great help you are!” snapped Loki before he snapped his glowing fingers and a green ring appeared around Thor before the elder brother fell through the floor, leaving his son, Loki’s nephew wide open.

The little brat had the audacity to stand his ground as his father had taught him after fleeing initially and put up his fists in a fighting stance, even less imposing looking than his father was being less than half Thor’s size and not remotely as strong either.

“Who will save you now, I wonder?” growled Loki as he advanced on the cornered kid, a million different versions of vengeance dancing through his mind.

“You wouldn’t hurt your own nephew, would you?” the child had the balls to ask innocently.

“You are aware of our family’s long history of deception and betrayals, aren’t you?” Loki asked incredulously. “Why would I be exempt from that rule after you just followed that trait yourself, enchanting this disgusting feature on me? Get it off and I might consider a more merciful fate for you than what I’m currently planning.”

“And what are you planning?”

“Try my patience stalling the inevitable and you may have your answer soon enough. Off. Now.” To emphasize Loki’s point, he summoned a dagger in one hand while his other still glowed with magic.

The child reluctantly magically erased the enchanted ink scribbled on Loki’s face before a dagger was hurled at his head as Thor returned to the scene through the window behind him. The child however vanished as an illusion projection, the dagger at the same time disappearing as well as Loki clearly wasn’t actually going to stab him with it, it took years for Thor to get used Loki’s points, his child had a ways to go. Despite both child and weapon not being present in the room, Thor still had a sense to confront Loki after being literally dropped by him earlier. Loki however had other thoughts and a vast majority of them were still vengeance before dishonor, he too disappeared from the room before Thor could have a few choice words with him.

Thor’s son was very much like his dad in that he thought he had become pretty clever and believed he knew Loki fairly well. Well enough to trick the trickster at least. He also knew that anything and everything within Loki’s room was something secretive, powerful, and valuable and he wanted in on that. So that’s where he was, trying to sense with his quickly growing magical abilities where Loki kept those special artifacts. Finally, he managed to find something tugging on his magic from under Loki’s massive kingsized bed and eagerly scrambled under it in hopes of some kind of cool treasure to show off to his peers later. His hands brushed against a small wooden chest that seemed to be locked but he easily magicked the lock to open for him. He could barely contain his excitement as he grasped the lid of the chest with both hands eagerly and the faintest of green glows came from the box before he popped it open. He barely had time to scream as a large green snake sprang from the chest and wrapped itself around his hands and arms, effectively restraining him while its head was stationed next to his and poised to bite his neck, baring its fangs as if to strike. As he writhed and struggled against the snake’s hold, his ankles were suddenly seized by an icy cold grip and he was yanked out from under the bed and lifted upside down to face a lean, gold and green adorned abdomen.

“You think you were the first to try this tactic on me? Where do you think you got that idea from?”

The snake still wrapped around the brat seemed to laugh at his captive while the owner of the snake let go of his ankle, keeping the kid afloat before he was turned right side up to face the bemused god of mischief he was caught by properly.

“Perhaps you should ask your father what actually happened anytime he tried his little attempts at tricking a master trickster, his mistakes could be your lessons.”

“Or my triumphs,” snarked the kid back.

“And how is that working in your favor thus far?” Loki asked him slyly. “Your father has had centuries to try that on me, how old are you again?” He let the kid go and the snake melted into a large toy snake the kid was quick to escape from. “If I see you in my room without my permission, if you ruin a nap for me again, you’ll find your worst fear under your bed.”

“I don’t fear anything.” The kid held onto the toy snake, hoping to at least impress his peers with its realistic though rubber look.

“Your father said the same thing when I gave him that warning and he didn’t stop checking under his bed till he he had women in it.” Loki snapped his fingers and the kid was sent out of his room and back to his father for good this time.

Loki stalked back to his bathroom once more and looked at himself in the mirror just to be sure it was gone for good before sticking out a forked tongue at his reflection and smirking. He wondered if fears were a hereditary thing as that would make this whole “uncle” thing that much easier though he always liked a challenge in the end and his nephew having magic did have its merits. Let the prank wars begin...

#loki oneshot #writing prompts #Loki #Thor #Asgard #for @kaogasm

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dlkardenal · 4 years

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After the Gods - Chapter 1.

A relic from the past

Asgeir heard the first thud well before the fog crept in, yet he chose to disregard it. He thought it superstition, one of the many shadows plagueing every soul since the serpent’s rise. There was no reason for him to abandon this field so ripe with the remains of a bloody battle. Shattered spears, torn shields and dented blades lay everywhere Asgeir could see, some of which could still fetch him a day’s rations in the Nook. He couldn’t understand why people clung to these rusted mementos, but they did. They sought some salvation from the blunt axes and bent bows, a spark of hope hiding withing these weapons. A chance to fight the terrors that befell humanity.

The next thud was louder and more clear, and when Asgeir raised his head, the blood froze in his veins. The horrid figure emerged from the milky mist and trampled on several half-eaten corpses while turning its blind sockets towards Asgeir’s racing heart. It was larger then the tales told, standing almost thrice his height and many times his weight. The fog swirled around it and froze into solid, tinkling gems that covered its entire arm, from thumbs to shoulders.

There was no hiding now—the jotun saw him. Or rather sensed that he didn’t belong there, between the lifeless cadavers of once mighty warriors and heroes. He was way too alive for that. Asgeir lept back just before the colossal fist smashed down where he previously stood, shredding a wooden shield to pieces and flinging pieces of bone to all directions. Nobody knew what drove the children of Ymir into such a frenzy, but people told about them in every hideaway. Life slipped from them the moment the Gjal sounded, and so did the tolerance for any living thing. They smashed apart villages, uprooted glades and massacred anything that crossed them.

Asgeir rolled to the side, avoiding the massive foot crushing him like a bug and looked around for a weapon. There was nothing that could save him from the jotun, but by Odin, he wasn’t going down without shedding blood.

He caught something glistening under a mound of rotting flesh and heavy leather cuirasses. Asgeir didn’t hesitate, he just rushed towards it and grasped the handle with both hands. He heard the jotun thudding behind him, crossing the distance with a few steps and casting a deathly shadow over him. The weapon wasn’t giving. The chilling presence of the giant bit him all throughout his body, but he couldn’t run away. There was no use. He’d only die a coward, and he refused even now, when no god was alive to judge him.

The jotun raised his hand to swipe Asgeir to the side, most probably shattering every bone in his body, but that moment something got unstuck in the pile of flesh and the weapon swung upwards, meeting the giant’s palm head-on. It was a spear, sturdy and thick with a rune-carved head, which somehow survived the massacre. Time slowed to a halt, the dry muscles strained around the jotun’s arm, and in that moment, Asgeir was ready to die. Valhalla was no more, Odin’s halls lay empty, so only uncertain darkness awaited him, but he didn’t care. Life was miserable as it was, he could settle for an emptiness.

Yet, death never came. The runes inscribed into the spearhead glowed in dark, ancient colors and the jotun’s hand split. The small, barely fist-sized blade cut the giant’s hand clean off, more akin to a headman’s ax, spilling crimson blood across half an arrow-shoot. The creature roared in agony, while Asgeir just stood there, grasping the spear, not daring to even blink. This was surely a dream. A last feverish phantasm as his skull split, just like the jotun before.

He had no time to decide wether he believed his eyes, because the giant leaned forward and smashed down, trying to crumble him between his dried out fingers. Asgeir hopped back, twirled the spear around and jammed it clean into the colossal arm. Bones creeked and tendons popped under the blade, and when Asgeir pulled the weapon back part of the jotun’s forearm came with it, spinning free from the joint and smashed onto the ground between two warriors’ remains.

Blood rushed into Asgeir’s mind. The runes almost burned on the tip, and the heat covered his arms and legs, crying to give into the bloodlust. The wounded giant coiled up like a worm and threw his leg forward, trying to sway the troublesome human away. Asgeir jumped upwards to dodge the attack, then kicked himself forward, closer to the colossal torso. The omen of dread that clouded his mind until now dissipated, the force driving him towards escape let go and nothing but an instinct remained. He was no berserker, yet in that moment, he understood them better then all his life.

The jotun swung the snag that remained of his right arm at Asgeir, and he could barely block it with the weapon’s shaft. The force of the blow sent him flying clean across the field, and eventually onto a shieldmaiden’s corpse. The air escaped his lungs, but the crimson haze didn’t clear. A familiar metallic taste rushed onto his tongue, his chest stung like fire and when he tried to rise, his limbs forsake him.

The runes on the spear brimmed again. A cold, salty wind swept over Asgeir and his vision blurred, obscuring the giant slowly rising to it’s feet. It was barely more than a corpse; maybe it never was more. A mountain of frosted meat and tendons, bristle bones and a cold killer instinct that drove him to squash Asgeir even crippled and near its end.

Asgeir clenched his teeth in anger and forced himself to rise, then spun the spear around and planted his feet for a last charge. He heard drums from somewhere, strong and agitated beating like a warchant. When the jotun howled at him, he cried out too and lunged forward. Time crawled like a melting glacier, every heartbeat took an eternity, and every move heralded a victor. Either the raging monstrosity with unearthly strength, snapping the warrior’s spine like a twig, or Asgeir, mystic spear in hand, aiming for the jotun’s empty eyes.

The warrior won. The weapon thrust into the giant’s skull, pierced through the layers of bone and emerged through the back of its head with a wet plop. The colossal body curled, its abdomen fell against the ground while the spear got stuck in the mud and held the lifeless head looking ever forward. Asgeir wheezed like a horse, his shoulders trembled and unwilling tears ran down his face. He couldn’t control the panic that came over him as the battlerage left, so he gave in. He fell down his knees and covered his head with both arms, shaking on the miry ground until he was too tired for that.

He faced a jotun. A jötnar denizen of Jotunheim, an ice giant akin to the god Loki and he won. There was no man since the starts faded that could befell a giant, yet he did just that with a spear he just requisitioned amidst junk and rubbish.

Asgeir slowly opened his eyes and looked at the weapon still sticking out from the gian’ts eyesocket. A normal spear would have snapped already from the weight, but this not only withstood and stayed firm, it radiated some wild beauty. An ancient perfection, something from the oldest tales told by the völvas during their sacrifices.

“What… are you?” Asgeir wishpered barely daring to speak. It was clear the spear was far more powerful than he was, and it made him uneasy. People told about relics, adorned armament of the Einherjar that fell to Midgard in the battle, but he never seen one carried around. Warriors would give anything for those relics and some gatherers like him made a fortune from them. Not that fortunes mattered these days, but this thing—this had real power. This wasn’t a simple Einherjar weapon.

Asgeir grabbed the shaft and fighting his disgust, he yanked it free from the skull. The runes still glowed, shifting from blood red to nightshade, but the light shrunk weaker with every pulse. Almost if the weapon knew the battle was over and it had no duty anymore. The giant’s head knocked against the ground and a fang broke from its horrid jaw. Asgeir’s eyes narrowed as an idea came over him, then set the spear onto the ground and grabbed the skinning knife hanging from his belt. There wasn’t a chance he would sell that weapon for anything, but he still needed to eat that day. He knew how much would Hrothir give for the remains of an ice giant?

* * * *

The Nook grew somewhat since Asgeir departed three days ago. Refugees came pouring in from every direction, mostly from the south where the waters rose the fastest and they settled in to count the days left. It was a pathetic sight for what was supposed to be the harshest survivors mankind had to offer, but nowadays getting here was a feat in itself.

A lean, dark-haired man winced at him from atop the guard tower, but seeing he was just a human, he nodded. Asgeir walked past the stake fence, resting the spear on his shoulder and hanging his spoils form the end of it in a brown sack, catching many an eye. He was seemingly the only one walking straight with some confidence among the hunched husks and darkened glimpses, and that stirred into the murky depression. He couldn’t walk three steps inside the walls before a woman rose up from a shadowy corner and walked up to him.

“Oy. You a peddler, right? What you got there?” she asked. She spoke flawless norvegian, yet her colours were much more reminiscent of the celt warriors they battled with on the western raids. Or so they told.

“Nothing. Hunt was unsuccessful,” Asgeir replied but it didn’t startle the woman.

“You know, lyin’ is fruitless when you show off the truth. That’s a spear, right?”

Asgeir took a deep breath and looked into her eyes as cruel as he could. “It is. Not for sale, though. It’s personal.”

“Yeah, right,” the woman smirked. “What would you do with a weapon, peddler? You ain’t a warrior.”

The conversation caught the attention of more people and they slowly cornered Asgeir. He felt like prey, and he didn’t like that at one bit.

“How much?” a staunch men said simply. He looked quite sickly, with a shrunken face and a spreading black malady on his fingers. He must have spent a long time in the snowstorm heralding the end times, and the frostbite chewed his flesh and bone. He couldn’t hold the spear properly even if Asgeir was willing to part with it.

“Not for sale,” he replied more agitated.

“Come on, peddler,” the woman pushed on. They threw the word around like a jest, a mockery to humiliate him for living on instead of charging head-first into a wall of jötnar like many did. He was “just” a peddler in their eyes, someone to cowardly to die a warrior.

“Alright, so be it. I’ll just pluck it from your corpse,” the staunch man said raising a rusted axe onto his shoulder.

“Hey!” the celt woman shouted and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Did the frost scoop out your wit, you moron? You want to kill a man, here?”

“So what?” the man replied confused. “You wanted to take it too, Fenris.”

“Yeah, with coin. Or whatever he asks. Kill a man and you’ll bring the giants on us.”

“That is just saxon horseshit,” the man grunted. Fenris struck out like a fox, clever and precise, grabbing the man’s neck and twisting it backwards until he lost his balance.

“Say that again, you sack of piss and I’ll rip out your throat right here. I’m no saxon, Geirolf, and I do not speak nonsense. Understood?”

The man squeezed a weak ‘yes’ through the grasp, so Fenris let him fall on his arse, then turned back to Asgeir, who just stood there silent, bearing the interlude.

“Now, peddler. You sure you won’t sell me that? I could pay well.”

“I told you twice already,” he replied. “It’s personal. I need to defend myself as well.”

“I could defend you with it. How’s that? You give me that and we’ll share food until you find something else.”

It was obvious they were getting nowhere, so Asgeir threw the sack onto the ground, unfolding half a dozen frosted fangs and a hearth larger then Geirolf’s head. He didn’t know which part was worth anything, so he went after his instincts and old tales.

Fenris and Geirolf both took a step back, while a third bystander, a young blonde kid nearly jumped away from the sight.

“Is—is that…” the celt woman gasped.

“It is. Jotun fangs and its heart. Those I’d gladly sell for a week’s rations. You think I need protecting?” Asgeir asked looking at Fenris. The woman’s lips curled into a grin, but her eyes still stuck to the remains.

“How… How did you kill that?”

“Wait. Don’t tell me this peddler coward fell a giant!” Geirolf shouted, and the words ran across the Nook like a warhorn. Every begging cripple, every malnourished child and wounded warrior sprung up and swarmed at them so tight even Fenris got agitated.

“Hey! Behave, you mongrels!” she cried, but it bothered no one. A grey warrior lumping around with a crutch tried to touch Asgeir’s spear, only deterred by another woman grasping his hand and pushing him back.

“Did you really? You killed a giant?” a juvenile boy asked. A slim, crooked man knelt down next to the fangs and slowly picked one up then dropped it immediately. A veteran-looking man shoved away another, shouting about something and not before long almost a hundred tired souls tussled around Asgeir and his spoils.

“Someone killed a giant. There’s still hope!” the grey man said shedding tears. “Odin might still be with us.”

“Enough!” Fenris cried out so ferociously the buzz died out in an instant. “Shut your claps before you get more hurt than you’re now. You…” she said tilting her head towards Asgeir. “Come with me. Without a word.”

Asgeir just sighed and packed up the giant remains, then walked after the celt followed by the renewed cacophony of eleven dozen people spinning the tale of a yet unkown giantslayer. He didn’t intend to put himself as a hero, nor did he want to show off, but he was left with little choice.

Fenris struck through the mass and lead him towards a hiding, half carved into the rockface that served as the backwall to the whole Nook, half built from stakes and split shields. It was surprisingly large considering how fast people had to build hovels for themselves, but it seemed Fenris didn’t cut corners. The inside was separated into two rooms with a board wall, one that was suppsodely where the woman slept, while the larger was packed with different hunting trophies and half-prepared meat.

“You’re a hunter?” Asgeir asked, but Fenris didn’t answer. Instead she lit a large way candle on a wall-mounted shelf and closed the door shut. She even covered the windows with some pelts, so the candle was the only source of light in the whole hovel.

“So, peddler,” she said sitting down by the rough table. “How did you come across those horrible trophies?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You just htrew them on the ground and let those dumbasses believe you killed a fucking jotun.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?” Asgeir said, sitting down opposite Fenris. The celt just grunted and stood up again, making the whole scene a bit awkward.

“Because that’s impossible. You know, I’ve met one. Fought it, even, and by sheer luck I could escape with my hide,” she said while tampering among the junk piled on a counter until she found two drinking horns. “So don’t speak nonsense to me, boy.”

Asgeir tried not to remark, just shrugged. “If you say so. You can believe whatever you want.”

“I’m not much for believing, peddler,” Fenris said while sat down and threw a horn towards Asgeir. It was just water in it, but he would have been much more surprised if she’d waste ale on him—if she had any. Not many did. “I want to know things. At first I thought you just happened upon the most intact weapon on this side of the sea, but after that little stunt… Now I don’t wanna buy it. I want you to tell me about that giant.”

Asgeir took a big gulp from the horn to bide his time a little. There was no point keeping anything from her, since laying low was no longer a possibility. He’d suspected he couldn’t keep something this unearthly a secret, but a bit more peace would have been nice.

“If you insist,” he said eventually. “I was scavenging a day’s walk from here, around the Coal Woods.”

Fenris suspiciously narrowed her eyes. “That’s where the Serpent’s blood dripped onto the earth. Are you mad, boy?”

“Perhaps. But I found no curse, no poison, just a battlefield. It was so vast I could tread half a day and still walk inwards. I wandered around there for two days at least, until I was covered by a fog.”

Fenris looked lost in thought, at least the way she wiggled her drink said as much. “A giants’ spell. Something that even fooled Thor once. So you were ambushed.”

“You believe me now?” Asgeir said with a smirk. “But you’re right. A frost giant emerged from the fog and almost killed me if not for this spear,” he said glancing over his shoulder at the weapon’s cloth-covered tip.

“How could a spear stop a jotun? I saw even varg fail to penetrate their skin.” Fenris asked leaning back. This woman grew more interesting with every word, and somehow that reassured Asgeir. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one experiencing the impossible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wasn’t thinking much, I just grabbed something and held it towards the jotun as it tried to flatten me. But it didn’t, instead the spearhead cut its palm in half and tore the other arm off by its elbow.”

“What?” Fenris said even more confused. “Alright, you’ve stalled enough. Show me that spear.”

Asgeir was still reluctant to reveal anymore of something he himself couldn’t fully grasp, but for some reason he didn’t oblige. The runes carved into the tip were peaceful now, almost like they were sleeping inside the metal, but it still hummed with the strange, archaic power.

“I can’t let you take it, but you can observe as you like,” Asgeir said as he held the weapon towards the celt. Fenris tried the blade’s edge with her finger, then caressed every rune carefully until she stopped.

“Don’t… Don’t tell me… This can’t be—,” she muttered, almost grasping on the spearhead.

“What? You know this weapon?”

Fenris looked up in utter dismay. Her eyes stared forward with a sickly pale shimmer and she even flashed her teeth at Asgeir, while the woman’s hand twitched and her fingers curled.

“How can you not know? How can you not recognize the symbols?” she asked. Asgeir pulled the spear back and stood up, unsure if the woman would jump at her or collapse.

“Tell me. What is this?”

“That is Gungnir, boy,” she said in a deep growl. “You found the place where the gods fell.”

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