Every night for the last few months, Niklas Thorson of Asgard had been having the same dream. He was standing outside an icy cave, cold gusts of wind battering his face as he waited for the mysterious figure in a scarlet cloak and hood to appear. As always, the mysterious figure’s face was obscured in darkness. As always, the figure beckoned Nicky closer, to follow them into the cave. As always, Nicky stood his ground, and beckoned the figure to come to him. He would not follow a faceless figure into the dark, cold cave, because he knew what lay there, and it was something he wanted no part of. As always, the figure would hesitate and step closer to Nicky. Each time though, he would reach out to yank the figure’s hood off their face, but just as the face was about to be revealed, he would wake up.
As he did tonight, a cold sweat coating his lithe, deceptively strong body. His hand reached up to touch the axe pendant he always wore around his neck. It was, mercifully, still there.
Not that many others could really lift it. The thing had the mass of a star.
Nicky swung his legs over the edge of his bed and shoved his feet into the fuzzy Throg slippers that sat at the end of his bed. Wrapping his thick, red robe over his bare chest, he padded downstairs.
Nicky needed mead. Mead and a whole stack of prime ribs.
As he did tonight, a cold sweat coating his lithe, deceptively strong body. His hand reached up to touch the axe pendant he always wore around his neck. It was, mercifully, still there.
Not that many others could really lift it. The thing had the mass of a star.
Nicky swung his legs over the edge of his bed and shoved his feet into the fuzzy Throg slippers that sat at the end of his bed. Wrapping his thick, red robe over his bare chest, he padded downstairs.
Nicky needed mead. Mead and a whole stack of prime ribs.