Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

I crossed into Nevada. They tell me it means “snow covered”, but I have always found the land to be parched and intolerably warm. Rumors, and hearsay I first heard in Kansas had pushed my frantic quest even farther west, as Californians leaden with gold returning to the east brought with them stories of wyrd tidings and disjointed geography. I had not yet learned the truth of the Ashes of Creation, and what I had hoped might lead me to the location of Vigrid, instead brought me to absolute puzzlement. I had little experience in Midgard since the blowing of the Gjallarhorn, and did not readily recognize that things were as badly amiss.

As the town of Elko came into view from the coach window, I saw the local temple complex rising in the distance. But where surely there should have been the rune of White Christ atop the steeple of this church, instead I saw the mark of Red Thor. The Hammer of the fire-bearded cloud-botherer lifted above the town, as though these childlike Midgardar were attempting to return a lost relic to the Allfather’s thundering idiot son.

There in Elko, I found a Gothi in place of a Pastor. A gang of Troll driving a herd of cattle at the outskirts of town. The Saloon, though it’s furnishings were of modern make and style, the interior was arranged in the manner of Mead Halls of yore. A Skroggr barber, and a Dverge skald enthroned at a piano. Shocked by these anachronisms, and befuddled by my own eyes, I sought conversations with as many of these uncouth townsfolk as I could tolerate. Sleuthing out clues and a direction to follow, I resolved to seek out Carson City that very night.
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