seen from Serbia
seen from Malta
seen from Philippines
seen from Yemen
seen from Mexico
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Slovenia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Italy
seen from Malta
seen from China
fuck ass stupid game. Oh my god I’m crying my actually eyes out of their sockets. Piece of shit no good terrible game.
I LOVE ATREUS SO MUCH, WHY DID THEY DO KY BABY SO DIDTY. HE DESERVES THE HAPPIEST OF HOMES AND SWEETEST IF GAKILYS.
brok just died, I think a part of me did too.
Brok doodle!
Blood From A Stone - Chapter Seven
Read from the start here. Thank you to @boxwithouthingesart for beta reading!
The abandoned village was still as ghostly as it was when Kratos had first set foot there. He had not encountered many foes along the way and only had to bloody the axe once. Even though the Realms were at peace, the wild lurking creatures still desired the taste of flesh and the thrill of the hunt.
Leviathan’s chill was lethal. It pulsed coldly on his back, the tough skin protected only by his fur cloak. Even though it was warm and humid in Vanaheim, wearing the cloak while carrying the axe provided necessary protection and comfort. Kratos noticed that it was colder than usual, as if engorged on its own magical energy. He smiled faintly, wondering what Faye would think.
He was close. The abandoned village was within sight, but it wasn’t what gave Thrúd’s hiding spot away. Kratos could feel the tinge of electricity in the air swell as he approached. He followed it until he found her, sitting on a pile of disordered stones that was once perhaps part of the foundation for a great temple pillar. She held her gaze towards the east, overlooking a cliffside that fell sharply into a valley of Vanaheim’s thickest jungle.
“You didn’t need to come here.” Thrúd addressed them without turning. The trees above them shivered, wavering the dappled golden light of the Realm’s perpetual sun. Her hair seemed even more orange and fire-like under the speckled patches of amber and honey.
“Your mum seems to think otherwise.” Mimir’s voice chimed from Kratos’s hip. The Spartan growled wearily, but Thrúd replied with a grin in her voice.
“I thought as much.”
“Aye,” Mimir responded cooly. “She’s awfully worried about ya, and to be honest lass, so are we.”
Thrúd glanced pensively over her shoulder but said nothing.
“May we approach?” Kratos’s voice, as gruff as ever, queried. Though his trust for the young Aesir warrior ran deep, she was still someone else’s child. Her permission for such closeness was not just a formality; it was a requirement.
Thrúd shrugged, her shoulders stiff and powerful.
“I guess.”
“That is not a yes or a no.” Kratos replied. Mimir bit his lower lip. If he still had a body, he would cringe.
Thrúd laughed, surprising them both. “Okay.” She nodded. “Yes.”
She heard the crunch of rocks and the shuffling of tall grass as Kratos approached. He sat at an arm’s length to her side, following her gaze out into the valley. The breeze was sweet and warm, just like the silence that settled between them. Mimir considered clearing his throat but decided to allow the silence to linger. It was comforting, for the moment.
“I was a fool to believe grandfather, to believe Odin…” Thrúd began, her eyes drawing towards the grassy earth. “…But, I still don’t understand why my dad didn’t fight back. He murdered giants. Murdered innocent people…why? Because Odin commanded him? Or…” she paused, chewing over her words carefully.
“Or, maybe because he enjoyed it? I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.”
Kratos leaned back. He thought of Thor and of his viciousness. He knew only of the god’s brutality, and not of Thor as a father. He remembered their battle on the frozen Lake of Nine, the lighting booming from Mjölnir tempered only by the frigid power of mighty Leviathan.
“Odin’s control ran deep. Especially his control of his sons.” Kratos objected gently. If he could relate even a little to Thor, it was the shared agony of unweaving yourself from your divine father’s sinister web. Kratos had only been successful through sheer bloodlust. Thor had not been so lucky.
Thrúd was silent for another long moment. Kratos thought of the dwarves. His heart tightened at the memory of Sindri, his exposed hands bruised and bloodied, and how he had not seen the dwarf in two years. It was only through the kindness of Lunda that he knew Sindri was alive.
“That hammer…” she motioned to Mjölnir as it sat idle like a strange rock half-embedded into the soft earth. “…Has been used for so much evil. How can I even possibly start to wash the blood off it?”
Kratos nodded, silently feeling his forearms burn. He did not have an answer for that one.
“You start one action at a time, lass…” Mimir’s voice cooed. Kratos finally unlatched him from his belt and placed him on the rock between himself and as if Thrúd it was a table. He may as well be part of this conversation too, and Kratos knew well not to ignore his wise council.
Thrúd inhaled sharply through her nose.
“I have dreams about it, sometimes.” She confessed. Her strong fingers knitted together as she recalled the nightmares.
“Rivers of giant’s blood flowing from it. I can’t stop it, and I’m drowning in it. Dad is there, but he’s laughing. Sometimes he’s crying. It’s…hard to describe.”
The memory of her nightmares flooded her thoughts. Mjölnir in the center of a great vortex of blood and lightning, crimson burning in flashes of hot white. Giants falling from a great height, their bodies forming the floor on which Thor stood. In this dream, he was weeping. The tears formed two small streams that trickled from his face. She had approached him in this dream, to wipe the tears away until…his eyes blazed white. The streams withdrew, and he bellowed a loud, sinister laugh. She shivered.
“You did not spill this blood. It is not your pain to carry.” Kratos growled softly. He could not imagine Thrúd as his own child, try as he might. He had a daughter, and the guilt of her death sat deep in his bones, festered in his marrow for centuries. Even now, it still ached. But he could at least speak the truth and try to ease her pain.
“…How can you possibly know what it’s like to know your father was such a monster?” Thrúd crushed her hands into trembling fists.
Kratos was silent. The words echoed in his mind, tormenting, ripping into his stoic resolve. A double-bladed weapon of truth, for he was a monstrous father with an equally monstrous father. It hurt much deeper than he had anticipated.
He leaned slightly towards her.
“It is a pain no child should bear.” He rumbled softly. “I am…sorry that you must carry it. It weighs heavily on you, and it is unjust.”
Thrúd shrugged.
“I’m his daughter, so maybe that pain is mine.” She grimaced. “Who else will carry it?”
“Aw, lass. Do ya think your pa would want that?” Mimir’s eyes glanced sideways at her, and noticing his strain Kratos fixed him so that he was facing her.
“I don’t know…I suppose not. But someone must pay for the giants’ demise. Maybe that someone is me.”
Mimir and Kratos were both silent, until Mimir’s voice cut through the chill like a warm beam of sunlight.
“No, dear. I don’t think the giants would have wanted a child to suffer anyway. Yes, you have the hammer now. Yes, it has been used for terrible evil. But now it is wholly yours. You get to decide what it is used for, and what its new legacy will be.”
He smiled at her. Kratos’s face remained steely, but there was warmth in his eyes.
“And knowing how bright, kind, and compassionate you are, dear, I think this hammer is in good hands.”
Thrúd looked away, and Kratos could see faint shimmering at the corners of her eyes. She lifted her hand, and Mjölnir flew into her palm like an obedient falcon.
“The dwarves that made this…one of them is dead?” She glanced at Kratos and Mimir as she stood, running a warm hand over the hammer’s leather-bound handle. The same handle that was accidentally made too short by Brok after he was bitten by a fly, determined to finish the gift for the gods even if blood filled his eyes.
“Aye…” Mimir sighed. “His name was Brok. You met his brother briefly, I believe? During Ragnarök.”
Thrúd remembered. She was close to smashing Loki’s skull when a dwarf in gold armor threatened her. She would have laughed. Sindri, no! She remembered Loki’s words. It would have been a pitiful sight if Sindri had decided to fight her, but a cold chill raced up her spine at the memory of his eyes.
“Sindri.” She said his name for the first time. Her father had spoken very little of the dwarf brothers, as if their very existence was an afterthought, as if his great and terrible hammer always belonged to him.
“Aye.” Mimir confirmed, and Kratos nodded.
Her heart was heavy in her chest. It felt wrong to own such a beautiful and deadly object without honoring its origin. The ingenuity of the dwarfs once again swept under the rug in favor of gods and their foolish pursuit of glory. Mortals obeying immortals, for what? The Huldra Brothers obtained their fame at a terrible cost.
Thrúd felt as if she must right this wrong. She could not ease all the pain the hammer had caused. But she could start somewhere.
“Then I swear to Brok,” She began, holding up Mjölnir by its short handle. It glimmered warmly, its anvil shaped head haloed by a bright beam of sunlight that stretched through the thick forest canopy.
“That this hammer will never again be used to harm. It will bring peace to the Realms, not war. It will bring justice to the Realms, and not terror.”
She let her words flutter through the warm, humid air like a powerful spell, then settle over the earth, binding her forever to them. Kratos felt his heart lift, a feeling he had not experienced ever since his Spartan brethren had given a great speech before war. A binding promise of bravery and valor in the face of impossible odds. He stood, grasping up Mimir by the knotted ropes that bound his horns, holding him like a lantern. He approached Thrúd carefully, wanting only her approval and comfort in his presence.
“This is my promise to the fallen dwarf who forged this mighty weapon. May he see it used for good, and may his spirit rest knowing so.”
The trees shivered with a new warm breeze. A few birds chirped in reply. It was as if Vanaheim itself murmured its soft but firm agreement, and the wildlife replied in kind.
“I’m sorry I never got to meet him…” Thrúd murmured as she lowered the hammer to her hip, her eyes folding the weapon over in her mind, imagining the hope it could muster and the sorrow that it must erase. She thought of Brok, and even though she never knew him, never had even seen his face, she felt a strange warmth flutter in her spirit.
“Aw, lass.” Mimir began, “He would be mighty happy to see ya wield that hammer. It’s in good hands now. I know for a fact…that he’s proud.”
Perhaps, Kratos thought quietly. Thrúd did not know the tragic circumstances of Brok’s soul, and how Sindri had condemned him to oblivion. But the light of hope was often fading and precious, so he did not correct Mimir’s words.
Kratos reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Thrúd gazed at him, her eyes softening.
“If it is any comfort…I am also proud of you.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. She smiled, then wiped them away. Kratos was silent for another long moment, then he too, smiled.
~~
Asta’s basement smelled like metal. Specifically, it smelled of copper. Sindri knew the scent of metal; in fact, he was all too familiar. Other species were unable to discern the unique, subtle differences between metals but dwarves were experts. Copper smelled of blood, sharp and pungent with a hint of earth.
Asta fiddled with something in the dark, and then three lamps flickered to life, casting warm light across the room. It was rather small, with tools scattered about. But Sindri wasn’t looking at her tools. He was staring at the strange labyrinth of wires and tubes that coiled across the eastern wall. It appeared like a nest of metal serpents, winding impossibly towards a large trumpet shaped end. It was unsightly. Sindri would have balked and called it ugly if he wasn’t a guest in another dwarf’s home.
“What is it?” Sindri asked, his voice coming out in a strangled whisper.
“I call it the Ear.” Asta beamed, though Sindri wasn’t impressed with this contraption’s lack of aesthetic. He supposed it was the last thing on her mind while she built it frantically and in a cramped space.
“It’s a listening device. The copper pipping forms a crude receiver. Very crude, mind you, but it works. Under the right conditions, we can demodulate signals, even powerful ones. It makes this basement a…hm. A passive antenna, of sorts.”
She ran her hand up and along one of the copper pipes and onto the huge trumpet at its end. “The Metallic Division has an internal frequency they use to communicate, and this can intercept it…” She smiled back at him, and Sindri only returned her expression with a blink of confusion.
“Sorry,” she fidgeted with the position of the trumpet, adjusting it so it craned towards the ceiling. “Think of it like…talking through magical waves, but these waves occur naturally. Some officials of the Division carry devices that can transmit these waves back and forth. So, they can talk at impossibly long distances.”
Sindri’s eyes sparkled with realization.
“Oh,” he gasped, the pieces falling together in his mind. “You’re spying on them.”
“Yes.” She didn’t look at him, her attention drawn only to adjusting the Ear’s receiver. “I intercepted a transmission between Ra’Geer and Malmr two weeks ago. It was grainy and difficult to understand at first, but with a few adjustments, I could tune in better. And I overheard what they planned to do with the Lady…” She paused, then stepped towards a disorganized pile of papers.
“Honestly, I was in denial. I didn’t believe that they could go through with something so heinous…” She flipped through a few pages, sitting cross legged as she did. Sindri crouched next to her but kept an arm’s length. Something about being in such a small space made his arm hair tingle. He wondered how many beasties dwelled within these cramped walls.
“…But I was wrong. Here,” she began to read what Sindri assumed was the intercepted message.
“From Ra’Geer: My sensors indicate a massive withdraw of magic from the Forge…the Lady looks sick. I suspect she is not well.
From Malmr, this time a bit later: She will have to be removed regardless, sooner rather than later. What are our options?
Ra’Geer: Heavy metals, nitrates, biological contaminants…take your pick. None will be pleasant, but at least we can try to make it quick.”
Sindri looked away with disgust.
“I know.” Asta put her notes to the side. The same disgust flickered in her dark eyes. She sat up to adjust the receiver once more, this time turning it towards the left. “Now they have the Forge. I have no idea what they’re planning to do there, the Ear gave out a few days ago. That’s why I came home so late with all that copper.” Their eyes met, and Sindri recalled the distinct thumping of a heavy object as she dragged it down to the depths of the basement. He couldn’t hide the half-smile that crept up his lips this time. He had suspected this entire operation would be far more sinister than the truth but was grateful for the discovery.
“Have you tried…” Sindri crawled towards one of the pipes, smoothing his bare hand along its surface. He flinched slightly, the familiar cold of metal ringing into his flesh. “…Moving this…” he ran his hand down to another pipe. “Here?”
Asta looked at him.
“No. Why?”
…Says it’s the only way he can hear what the metal wants to be.
Sindri shrugged. “Just a feeling.” He cupped the underside of the pipe, letting the cool texture sit in his bones. He shivered, then withdrew his hand.
Asta puckered her lips, considering. “I would have to rewire a circuit, but…I’m willing to try.”
Sindri shuffled towards the wall, sitting now on his knees. He hadn’t expected himself to be so eager to help her. They worked silently together until a few hours passed. Sindri watched her rewire a few small devices and then attach them back into the twirling copper intestines of the Ear. Her fingers moved with delicate ease, much like how his own moved when using tools to manipulate hot iron or sparkling Vanir magic. She was in her element, and despite the hideousness of her machine, he respected her expertise.
“I think that should do it.” She scooted away and towards a small box where a red switch glimmered. Sindri hadn’t noticed it until now. She flipped it and the Ear hummed to life.
“It works!” Asta gasped with delight. Sindri felt himself smile. He watched Asta quickly organize her pile of papers. The Ear’s trumpet receiver belched nothing but gentle buzzing, like a colony of agitated insects.
“What’s that sound?” He asked, his eyes scanning the length of the receiver. It reminded him of a demented flower, something he would have encountered in Vanaheim’s deepest, darkest jungle.
“Static.” Asta replied, then finally made eye contact with him. Sindri recognized the spark in her eyes – pride. Yes, every dwarf was proud of their work to some degree. Even if it was hideous, but Sindri kept that last thought to himself.
Asta stood and once more adjusted the receiver, and finally a faint, crackling voice broke through.
“All stations…ready. The Gateway…finished…await energization.”
Asta froze in place, as if she had been struck with a bolt of lightning. She bit her lower lip and murmured something that Sindri didn’t quite catch. He merely stared, fascinated and troubled, at the Ear.
“We’re running out of time.” She breathed, drawing his attention away from the receiver and towards her. Her shoulders were tense again, and her eyes were wide.
“What do you mean-” Sindri began, confused by her sudden zeal. The message that flowed through the receiver had been strange, yes, but meant little to him. It was as if something clicked in place for her, and she was refusing to elaborate. He scowled at her.
“I’m going to the Forge.” Asta flipped the little red switch and the Ear powered off, leaving the basement oddly silent. Sindri’s brow knitted harshly together. He watched her walk towards the basement stairs, alarm painting each step. He stood quickly and followed behind.
“Wait,” it was easy to cut in front of her, and he held his arms out to block her path. This is insane, the little voice – thankfully not the boar – in his mind protested. Asta stared at him expectedly.
“The Dragon Beach cart will leave soon, I’ll need to-”
Sindri inhaled sharply, interrupting her.
“I know a faster way.”
Blood From A Stone - Chapter One.
Read on ao3.
Chapter Two.
Surprise! I was going to wait until the weekend to post, but decided I will throw up the first chapter here tonight. Enjoy.
This is my first fic in almost ten years. I'm a bit rusty with fiction writing, so feel free to leave me constructive feedback. I plan to post this first chapter here then chapters 1-3 on my main/ao3 in August.
Summary:
Blood From A Stone takes place after Ragnarok and follows Sindri's journey. He may have been a footnote in the tale of Kratos and Loki, but his own has only just begun.
Haunted by the strange specter of a golden boar, Sindri returns to the realm of the dwarfs after the sudden and mysterious loss of his home. A new threat looms over the horizon. Svartalfheim is growing with immense power thanks to a new dwarven group that call themselves the Metallic Division.
Sindri is taken in by a dwarf named Asta, who has secrets of her own. Meanwhile, the strange and monstrous boar refuses to leave him alone...
There are also content warnings you should know before reading:
A romantic relationship between Sindri and a dwarf OC named Asta. Nothing explicit or NSFW is featured in the main story, but physical intimacy is implied.
Sindri dealing with the aftermath of Ragnarök, developing severe PTSD, depression, and essential tremor of the hands. He is still struggling with germaphobia also, though to a lesser degree.
Flashbacks to the dwarven rebellion and descriptions of torture.
Sindri dealing with extreme grief and unhealthy ways of mourning.
Dwarf OCs who have suffered at the hands of Odin, and are working through their own recoveries in not-so-healthy ways.
A deep exploration of the dwarf realm, its politics, and life after Ragnarök.
A blend of science fiction and fantasy as dwarven tech explodes after Odin’s death.
A strange entity that is haunting Sindri and won’t leave him alone. Paranormal horror will be explored and touched on.
Expect sporadic illustrations, sometimes in color sometimes more sketchy/black and white.
While the main storyline centers on Sindri and the dwarfs, most of the GoW cast is present. They are integral to the story and I will be exploring them, their thoughts and their struggles alongside Sindri’s journey.
I know ocxcanon isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and I respect that. On that note, I originally wanted Asta to take a backseat but the author in me can not, in good faith, write a character who is too flat and one-dimensional. There will be in-depth exploration of her life, motives, and struggle as well. Angst will be very frequent, but there is a healing element to it as both Asta and Sindri grow and learn to cope together. If you don’t like ocxcanon, this fic is not for you. Ultimately, I am writing this for myself and not for anyone’s specific approval. It’s a sandbox for me to practice writing, illustrating, and having fun with characters that I adore.
With all of that said, I hope you enjoy.
~~
“Run! Run!” Ratatoskor’s voice echoed throughout the lavender void, crashing against a new roar of destruction as Sindri’s home was set ablaze. He hopped two branches before they were devoured in a rush of flame. All around him, smaller branches of Yggdrasil were eaten alive by the burning web. Níðhögg’s children fled to the lower arms, desperate and fearful.
“It is too strong!”
A familiar voice drew ice cold fear into the Tree Guardian’s spine as he watched Kratos thrust forward with his blades. His lunge was not an attack but a swooping defense of Freya as she stood, enraptured not with awe but primal terror.
“Freya!” Kratos barked as his flaming blades cut away a falling branch, preventing injury to the goddess for now. A rich, thick plume of ash and burnt wood sprayed into the air like blood splatter. Yet, she still stared with widened eyes and quickened breath. “Go! Now!”
Freya, finally untangled from her stupor, nodded and began to retreat towards the Mystic Gateway. Ratatoskor clung to the stony edge of the portal, ushering her with frantic fuzzy hands.
“Sorry to rush you, but if you don’t leave now you’ll most certainly be killed!”
Freya turned to see Kratos cut a path out of the blaze, clearing a way towards her and their promised exit. Mimir swung on his hip, his usual demeanor a new pitch of fear. “Let’s listen to the squirrel for once, yeah?!”
Then, a deep roar vibrated the very foundation of the Tree. A silhouette arose from the rubble like a flaming mountain. Its shape was that of a great and monstrous boar, maw open and pouring forth liquid fire. Golden bristles shot from its fur and framed its wide head like a crown of sun rays, each point as deadly as a spear. It stood in the center of what was once Sindri’s home, burning embers of destruction dancing around its hooves like wayward spirits. Molten lava oozed from its open mouth and nostrils like snot, splashing upon the Tree’s surface with loud, unforgiving hisses. The Tree shivered and twisted.
“What is it?!” Kratos roared. Freya’s face, highlighted by sickly golden flames, twisted into a grimace. “…I don’t know.”
“Listen to the head and listen to me!” Ratatoskr shouted. “You three. Portal. Now! Quickly!”
Kratos watched Freya disappear into the shimmering blue membrane of the Gateway. He paused before following her, eying Yggdrasil’s guardian with a stony grimace.
“And what of you?”
“Oh Master Kratos, while I appreciate your concern, I assure you I’ll be fine…” He paused, almost thoughtfully, then added, “The Tree will deal with this new threat…and I don’t want whatever horrible creature this is to find its way to other realms. Now off with you!”
Kratos felt his jaw tighten as he looked back one last time. He caught the monster’s blazing eyes, two golden furnaces within a shroud of onyx black, glaring back at him with an intensity he had never seen nor felt before.
Kratos was a god. A god of war. He rarely felt fear. But the creature’s stare unnerved him deeply, and he couldn’t shake off the strange sense of familiarity as he escaped into the Gateway.
~~
The tavern was spotless.
Not a single bit of dirt or grime could be found, not on the stools nor even the undersides of tables. The floor was freshly swept and the room even carried the warm scent of kitchen spice. A fireplace rumbled at the south end of the bar room where a larger group of dwarfs laughed. Much to his shock, Sindri could only faintly smell a hint of stale mead. He paid little attention to the bar patrons. Their chattering and drunken mumbling became a soothing backdrop for his misery.
His stay was coming to an end, though Sindri wasn’t sure where he would go next. If he was being honest with himself, he had grown quite fond of the little tavern. It was a new establishment near Dragon Beach and just outside of the city of Niðavellir. The owner, a dwarven woman whom he did not know (and preferred it stayed that way) took pity on him and offered the upstairs loft for a week. He rested, ate, and sulked. There was little else to do, especially now that Ragnarök was a bygone word that left the taste of blood on his tongue.
Ragnarök.
It felt so long ago.
As if Creation itself had yet to unravel into the Realms, and an incomprehensible length of time between his brother’s murder, Odin’s annihilation, and the fall of Asgard slithered between himself and dreaded, bloody Ragnarök.
Yet, two years was nothing in the lifespan of a dwarf. It was a blink of an eye to a being who could easily outlive a Midgardian a hundredfold.
And it was hardly enough time to grieve properly. Sindri found himself sinking deeper into a mist of despair with each passing sunset.
He glanced over his shoulder. No dwarfs had recognized him as far as he knew. Was he bitter or relieved? The Huldra Brother who forged Thor’s hammer, Faye’s axe, who saved his home realm from oblivion…a mere mote of dust in the sunshine? Maybe they did recognize him and choose to ignore him out of fear? He did look like a disheveled mess. His hair hung low around his shoulders, much longer than before and tucked under a dark hood.
He looked down at the tea in his mug, watching how the liquid surface reflected his face like a mirror. He looked older, more tired. A small scar etched a jagged groove across the bridge of his nose. He remembered the injury, and what had caused it. Thrust into the battlefield, he had luckily rolled away from the swing of a mighty Einherjar only to be slashed across the face by the tip of another’s blade. He remembered feeling his own hot blood trickle down his face, tasting it on his lower lip, before slipping into the Realm Between Realms once more to avoid another blow…
“Ayy…” A voice, deep and grizzled, hot behind his ear.
“You the fucker that locked the realm towers?”
Sindri glanced sideways and met a dwarven man, haggard and worn in appearance, sneering into his face. He was clearly drunk. His breath stank of mead and his eyes were reddened and moist. His nose was bulbous and his hair was as red as Thor’s.
“Nah, can’t be him.” Another voice, a rough dwarven woman, met his opposite side. She appeared more frightening than her male counterpart, with a visible facial scar that had once slashed open her left cheek. Her left eye was also missing, making Sindri ponder if the injuries were healed wounds from a Grim attack. It left a hole where her eye should have been, and she apparently didn’t care to conceal it under a patch. Her hair was fully gray, and she was beginning to grow what would become an impressive beard. “The one I saw had shorter hair…and looked prettier too.”
“No, it’s him all right.” The man snarled, eyes casting daggers at Sindri.
Sindri felt…nothing.
He almost laughed. Finally, some recognition.
“Seen you locking the realm towers when the Horn sounded…you stole our glory, you fuckin’ bastard. Do you know how long we’ve been wanting to fight Odin’s cock-sucking army in Ragnarök? Who the fuck are you to take that from us?” His voice cracked, bubbling over with a rage that Sindri was all too-familiar with. He grunted as he was shoved and sucked in a surprised breath, but the assault continued, this time from the woman.
“Oh fuck, it is him. Look at that pretty brown hair, I recognize it now…” she hissed, her heavy hand dealing a hard blow to his shoulder. Sindri winced… if only he hadn’t melted down his armor. What good did it serve? Life had a cruel way of continuing to prove him wrong.
A few dwarfs looked their way, but none said anything. Typical, sniveling, useless cowards.
“Ra’Geer! Look, it’s the fucker who locked the realm towers!” The dwarven woman raised her arm and gestured towards someone at the far end of the tavern. Sindri didn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder as a massive man of a dwarf overshadowed him, placing his forearms on either side of Sindri’s cloaked frame. Sindri noticed that he was wearing a pair of ornate leather gloves with silver stitches and a strange symbol on the dorsal side. Though, the gloves appeared to swell and the switches seemed ready to burst.
“Oh?” Ra’Geer murmured quietly, like a wolf taking stalk of his cornered prey. His voice was deep and strangely warm, like a liquid bronze fresh from the fires of a hot forge.
“He’s smaller in person than I imagined.”
The dwarven woman laughed, “Everyone is small to you, Ra’. Hey, let’s give him a piece of our minds, yeah? How long did we wait to fight in Ragnarök for our families? How long did we wait for our revenge against Odin for what he did to us, our people, our home?”
She leaned in close to Sindri, but he couldn’t make eye contact with her. Flashes from Ragnarök poured through his mind like a frantic river. The smell of tossed soil and blood. The clanging of metal. Dragon’s breath, Fenrir’s howl. The shrieking collapse of the dwarven war machines. Atreus. Kratos. Brok…
“Please…” he finally choked out a pathetic whimper. “Just leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone?” The woman hissed, pushing a hot breath into his neck. “Leave you alone? After what you stole from us?”
Sindri then found himself shoved to the floor without a second to process it. The tavern around him spun. He looked up and was met with three snarling faces.
He hoped, perhaps foolishly, that someone would step in but pain shot into his side as he was kicked in the ribs. He coughed, then groaned as he was lifted up by the collar of his cloak and shoved against the bar, knocking a few bubbling drinks off the edge. The cloak’s hood fell, revealing his weary face and unbound hair.
“Hey!” the barkeep shouted, her voice frantic. “Knock it off!” She went to dissipate the fight, but the giant dwarf Ra’Geer stepped in and prevented her from interfering. His gaze was steely and cold as he studied her, as if inviting her to try his patience.
Sindri had enough. He had spent two years of wondering the realms aimlessly, living as a nomad off the land, starving and filthy. What was it all for? What did he risk his life for in Ragnarök? These weren’t his people, they were monsters.
His lithe hands shot up. He was quick and wrapped the attacking dwarf into a tight headlock. The dwarven man gasped with surprise and fought, but found Sindri was terrifyingly strong. Stronger than he had anticipated. Years spent slaving over a hot forge and throwing a hammer will do that to a dwarf.
Sindri’s free hand found his belt and from it he pulled a small knife. He held the edge of the blade against the man’s neck, hand trembling but disgustingly eager.
“Don’t fucking move any closer!” Sindri shouted. He questioned the voice that poured from his lips, even has he held his blade against the man’s throat. What would Brok think of him in this moment?
He would be horrified.
“Don’t make me hurt him…” Sindri hissed and yanked the dwarf’s head back further by his hair to expose more of his neck. His blade came dangerously close to drawing blood.
“Fuck! Let him go!” His companion shouted. The giant dwarf Ra’Geer thrust his steely gaze onto Sindri, but did not act. The patrons sat in eerie, stunned silence. No one gave pause until the tavern door opened and two dwarf women walked in mid-conversation, only to cast widened eyes upon the scene.
“Oh, shit.” The shorter dwarf woman hissed. Her features were sharp, angular. Her hair was an untraditional cut, with half of it seemingly shaved away, leaving three long braided locks to rest on the opposite side. Her eyes were a blazing blue, like the ice of Niflheim. Her companion was almost the opposite, with a more traditional hairstyle and dark brown eyes.
She glared at Ra’Geer, then at the man in Sindri’s grasp.
“I trusted you wouldn’t get into trouble.” She curled her lower lip, then spread her arms as if to show Sindri she wasn’t a threat. Sindri wasn’t convinced. His grip on the man tightened, and he whimpered pathetically in the former blacksmith’s death grip.
“Hey…look. Sorry my guys bothered you. Let me buy you a drink or a meal, yeah? I’m sure we can talk this out.”
Snarling, Sindri shoved the dwarf to the floor. He landed with a loud groan and an indignant thud.
“Just leave me the fuck alone.” Sindri hissed. The woman raised her hands defensively as her companion crawled towards her.
“Okay. Okay. We can do that…right?”
She glared towards her three companions and the two nodded. Ra’Geer merely stood motionless and expressionless. The taller dwarf woman said nothing. Sindri took note of her dark hair and how her green tunic was interlaced with a complex geometric pattern, like the roots of the World Tree. She seemed older than her companions. A few strands of silver traced through the long ribbons of hair that framed her slender face. He caught her glance for just a moment and felt nothing but spite for her silence.
“Fuck you.” Sindri spat and disappeared within a blink, leaving a cold ripple of air where he once stood.
~~
He took a deep, long breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Summer was here.
The nights were slightly cooler but offered little relief from Niðavellir ‘s humidity. He had been deep in Vanaheim’s moist jungle the last time he experienced this kind of stickiness. Sindri could hardly believe it. It was difficult to keep track of time when he could do nothing but mourn. And now, he had another loss to grieve.
He sat and watched the fire crackle in the wet air. A little bit of magic got it started, but now it was dying fast. This was his home. This filthy, small tent and this useless fire, shacked up in a thicket next to the valley of Albrich’s Hallow. His beautiful home was no more, reduced to mere ash and despair.
He had returned to the Realm between Realms after his conflict at the Dragon Beach Tavern a month ago, only to find a scene of total ruin. Ratatoskr was no where to be found. Even though the dwarf searched for the Guardian, his efforts were useless. Sindri screamed into the gray void, hoping beyond all reason that this was all just a bad dream - a nightmare - and that he would wake up any moment, in his beautiful home with Brok downstairs making breakfast, hurling curses, and reminding him of his biggest failure.
He stared into the fire as it started to dwindle. His thoughts were starting to feel thick, heavy. His eyebrows pinched together. Who had done this to his home? The only individuals he could think of were Kratos and Freya, but despite his rage, he knew they had no intention of harming him. Not like this.
…Right?
He even allowed the deities to stay in his home for two years while they stewarded the Realms, with himself making sporadic secret appearances to check in. He never appeared to the gods, but made note of their presence in his home until he wondered off into a different Realm again, seeking isolation.
He appreciated Freya’s attentiveness, but she never cleaned up after her plants and often invited the Shield Maidens into his home as if it were her own. Sindri would have put a stop to it if he had the energy to confront her. He remembered wanting to sweep his living room, the urge clawing at him, eying the falling leaves from his hiding spot on the inner balcony. At least she was there. As for Kratos, his quiet rage grew for the lumbering god. He spoke little, and when he did it was to Freya. His words became sweeter and more affectionate by the day.
It made Sindri taste bile in the back of his throat.
It would be too easy to lay blame on them, but Sindri wasn’t a fool. They were not to blame. Someone - something, perhaps - did this to his home. And when it found it…
No…
He was too tired, too broken, for revenge.
He crawled back into his tent and wrapped himself in his cloak. Thankfully, the fire kept most of the gnats and insects away. Gods, he was tired. His eyelids drooped and fluttered, sleep ushering him to lay upon the grass. He sighed, finding a small comfort in its softness.
Beyond the hills Alberich’s Hollow, the specter of a golden boar prowled.
~~
End author's notes:
First chapter is complete! It’s never explained why the dwarfs didn’t join the battle of Ragnarök, though there are a few ideas such as most were loyal to Odin and technically fought in defense of Asgard. While I think that may be true, I think a lot of dwarfs deeply hated Odin and would have jumped at the chance to get a piece of him on the battlefield.
There is an amazing YouTube video by FatBrett that proposes Sindri’s character as being the antithesis of Odin, but both characters have a serious issue with using control to achieve their goals.
I like to imagine that Sindri returned to Niðavellir before Gjallarhorn sounded, not to muster a dwarven army, but to lock up whatever method the dwarfs would have used to enter the battlefield (in this case, a Realm tower).
“No more dwarfs are dying for this!” Remember these words? I don’t know, it feels like a hint to me that Sindri wanted to take this matter into his own hands (again), seizing “benevolent” control to protect his people. But what if some dwarfs resented this? We’ll explore more of that in later chapters.
As for the boar haunting Sindri, we’ll get into that too. The vibe is very Severance inspired, if that gives you any hint as to what’s down the road.
what get's bigger, the more you take away?
i am not okay about this game
Brok and Sindri’s brotherly love is just like this the entire game I can't-
like. they would literally die for each other but still can’t stop bitching about how insufferable the other is
I have learned about a certain scraped scene with Brok in God of war Ragnarök and I feel as though the Brok simps ( I know it ain’t just me) were robbed. At the same time though the thought of it makes me unable to breath 🤣
Print shop is active! Find it here! Pricing and sourcing decisions have been kicking my butt, but these three pieces are finally available to order as high-quality prints on the most eco-friendly paper I could muster from the world-wide-web.
Thank you everyone who showed an interest in prints and gave me kick up the ass I needed to get this rolling.
Big love! x
