Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

The Heimdallsynir – Humans, Mankind, they have so many names for themselves that it is impossible to list them all, and if truth be told, hardly worth mentioning at all – tell stories of an asteroid striking the realm of Midgard and bringing unparalleled destruction, and near extinction of their race.

This is, of course, the foolish notion of a barbaric people who cling desperately to the mass delusion of empiricism.

The Gjallarhorn has been blown, even if the Heimdallsynir cannot feel the pressure of it’s sounding. The Last Army of the Hall of the Slain make for Vigrid, even if mankind’s instruments cannot count the footfalls of their march. Tell me this, O Scientists: What is the weight of a dream that sits heavy on your heart? What is the speed of a nightmare that sails ever closer to your shores?
Pg. 98

In my travels through Midgard, I have met with Dverge, Alfar, Troll and Jotunn of every clan. I have fought Draugr, Aptrgangr, Haugbuar, and Vættir of every stripe. But it was during the last Winter of Seven Winters Each of Seven Years with No Summer, that I met my first Einheri in Midgard.

Missouri is a simple land, of simple people, who live simple lives. It is hard to say what their animosity towards amphibians stems from, but they hunt them with an undaunted fervor. But, I digress.

It was in the simple whiskey town of Jollification, Missouri, that I came to know Thorkel Jarlaskald, who was Chosen in Serkland. It was from Thorkel Einheri that I first understood how all whom I had met in this cursed realm looked upon their world with glamoured eyes, and misbegotten memory.
Thorkel Einheri taught me that all those who had eaten of the golden apples of Idunn’s grove, or tasted the Mead of Poetry were not affected by the Ginnungagap. But those who had not enjoyed such privileges found their minds warped by supplemental effects that Surtr’s Sword had wrought against Midgard.

Those ungirded against the Yawning Void know not that they had once lived in other realms, that they were but expeditionists to Midgard, drawn to seek out the location of the Plains of Vigrid by the Gjallarhorn.

Their histories fade away, details softening, whole lifetimes slowly desaturate into oblivion, like waking from a dream, they have always lived here. The Sparks of Muspell, carried by Surtur’s Sword pass through Ginnungagap, their embers smote, and the resulting ash falls with the snows of the Fimbulvetr.

The Ashes of Creation make it so. They have always lived here. Their family homestead dates to before the Fimbulvetr.
Pg. 231